


Right Choices

by MsBarrows



Series: Right Choices [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, M/M, Wordcount: Over 50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 71
Words: 170,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>A/N: This story follows a Warden of commoner dwarf origin through Dragon Age: Origins. I blame my good friend deagh for making me want to try my hand at writing something within the DAO universe :)</b></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Proving

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: This story follows a Warden of commoner dwarf origin through Dragon Age: Origins. I blame my good friend deagh for making me want to try my hand at writing something within the DAO universe :)**

**A/N: This story follows a Warden of commoner dwarf origin through Dragon Age: Origins. I blame my good friend deagh for making me want to try my hand at writing something within the DAO universe :)**

 **Note that most dialog will be in-game lines, based on the copyrighted work of BioWare, though naturally I will be making up conversations out of whole cloth when needed to explore thoughts or characters in ways that I can't locate applicable in-game lines to adequately express.**

 **Right's name is a nickname, not his true given name, and as he would like to put it "Doesn't refer to being on the path of right, or doing right, or even making the right choices - it's 'cause I'm a right bastard at times."**

* * *

Right folded his arms and scowled, listening to Beraht talking with his sister Rica. She was putting up a fuss again about their deal with him. A bit late in the day to be having second thoughts, especially when it had been all her idea in the first place; she'd practically twisted his arm off to get him to introduce her to Beraht, after he'd started working for him. She wanted financial backing to become an heir-hunter, and she'd seen his connection to Beraht as the fastest, easiest way to get that.

She'd been jealous of her friends who were already involved in noble hunting; she wanted the finer things in life, was obsessed with the idea of getting out of Dust Town. She'd certainly been happy enough to have Beraht spending money on having her cleaned up, dressed nice, given lessons in deportment, sent to the better parts of town to attend parties where she might meet and attract a highborn lover. She liked that part of things, enjoyed flaunting her finery to her female friends... at least until she reached the "attract a highborn lover" part of it all. She seemed to have become less enamoured of that part of things lately; he wasn't sure why. Something she'd seen or heard at one of the last few parties she'd attended, maybe.

Yet she'd been so enthusiastic all along, happily spending hours building dream castles about what her life would be like if she managed to become the mistress of some wealthy noble son, and how she'd bear him a child - a son, of course! - and be raised up, and leave Dust Town for good. He'd bitten his tongue more then once to resist pointing out to her that she was as likely to bear a daughter as a son; a daughter that would do her no more good then her own birth had done their mother, Kalah. Rica was happy enough to remember that her own blood was half noble, but she sure didn't like being reminded that their mother had entertained similar dreams once, until the birth of a casteless daughter had ended her term as mistress of whatever sodding noble had been Rica's own father.

Kalah liked to claim that she'd later almost been married, before being abandoned by Right's father, but he'd heard enough from older dusters to know the truth. Right's own birth had come about as a result of their mother's attempts to support herself, her infant daughter, and her own growing addiction to mosswine. She'd eventually hit the point of selling herself to any duster with the coin to buy her, a common profession for duster women, and Right had been the eventual result of those random liaisons. Casteless son of an unknown casteless father, his own choices were much more limited then his half-sister Rica's. It wasn't like _he_ could hope to father a child on someone and be raised up as a consequence, that only worked for women. Though if Rica did manage to pull it off, she'd be able to elevate him and their mother as well - assuming she didn't opt to shake them off like dust from her daintily slippered feet.

Even his prowess as a fighter would never earn him anything more then a higher rung on the ladder here in Dust Town; it would never get him out of here. And he was fine with that. He'd made a reasonably comfortable home for them here, the combination of his pay and his muscle being enough to acquire a good-sized set of rooms for himself, his mother, and Rica to live in, with enough left over to keep them reasonably well-fed. He had decent armour, sharp weapons, good friends to hang around with, money to spend when doing so, and a job he enjoyed doing.

What more did a man really need, after all? Silk clothing, finer food, fancier women? Cotton wore better then silk, and armour better yet - with the added bonus of being useful at keeping blades out of your back, something noble silk seemed to attract, judging by the regular goings-on in the Diamond Quarter. Food was fuel to keep the body going; it could taste better, or worse, but food was food. And women were women; take off their clothes and remove the fancy makeup and pretty perfume, and they were all more or less the same underneath, whether pampered noble princess, or casteless stand-up whore.

He pulled his wandering attention back as the conversation between Beraht and Rica became more heated. She had a talent for annoying Beraht; as useful as having a talent for playing with fire. He had a feeling she didn't realize just how dangerous Beraht really was; she scorned the man even as she hungrily latched onto his money, never really giving thought to just how it was that Beraht had that sort of coin. She'd never questioned what sorts of work Right did for the man, not as long as it got her the coin she needed to try and improve her own life.

"We've kept our part of the deal," he interjected, distracting Beraht from his rising ire with Rica.

Rica glared in annoyance at him behind Beraht's back, the glare quickly changing to a smile and a nod of agreement as Beraht turned back to her.

"What do you need me to do?" Right continued, before Rica could say anything to further annoy his boss.

"Your buddy Leske's outside, he knows what I'll need from you today," Beraht said. "Don't even think of bungling this job. Your whole family's on loose sand with me right now."

He stalked out. No sooner had they heard the front door close when Rica started berating him about his failure to stand up to Beraht on her behalf, before switching to complaining about how well one of her friends had already done while she herself had still to gain a proper patron.

"I need to get going before Beraht comes back," Right said, cutting her off. "Good-bye."

He turned and left the room. Gods, she drove him mad. Never happy with what she had, always wanting something more.

He paused, a faint smile coming to his lips as he reached the front room and saw their mother sitting at the table, a half-empty bottle in front of her. She was doing better lately, since he'd earned them all a proper home, and regular meals; time was she'd have been well into a second bottle by this time of day.

"Good afternoon, mother," he said.

She looked up muzzily, and frowned. "Whozzat? Why are you bothering me?" she asked suspiciously. "Rica?" she called out questioningly, starting to look frightened.

Not one of her good days; she'd forgotten who he was again; in her wine-addled state, she could remember that she had a son, but thought he was still a child, not the adult he'd become.

"It's the king of Ozhammar - I heard you were single," he joked.

"Don't you sass me, you ungrateful brat! I made you and I can make another just like you," she snarled.

He suppressed a sigh. Sometimes she'd respond to humour in kind, eyes glinting with good humour, smile widening, the charming woman who'd once been crowned the "Paragon of Beauty" at a nobleman's party briefly showing through. But clearly not today.

"Never mind. Sleep it off - again," he told her, and walked away, tuning out her bitter response, hearing the clink of bottle against table behind his back as she resumed her solitary drinking.

* * *

"Leske! How's it shaping?" he asked, grinning to see his friend and partner waiting outside their home, leaning against a bit of crumbling stonework. They joked back and forth for a couple of minutes, before turning to business. Another nasty bit of scut-work, tracking down and disciplining some duster who Beraht suspected was skimming.

They headed out of Dust Town, exchanging words with some of the whores and beggars they passed. They tracked down Oskias, the duster in question, drinking in Tapster's. He started sweating as soon as Right sat down across from him; he stunk of guilt as much as he did of the cheap lichen ale he'd been guzzling. They barely had to lean on him at all to get him to confess that he'd been skimming lyrium. And not just a little lyrium - 25 sovereign's worth!

Leske and Right exchanged a look. Leske folded his arms, and raised his voice. "Could everyone who isn't about to die please turn around for a moment? This may be unpleasant. Thank you."

The few people nearby hastily moved away or left entirely, not wanting to be witnesses to what happened next. Oskias hastily rose to his feet, pulling out a battered shield and a poorly-sharpened sword; he clearly knew more about mining then he did about fighting, and with the two of them against his one... well, it was over fast.

They quickly searched him and his bags, retrieving what little lyrium he'd had on him, and headed off to report to Beraht.

* * *

Beraht was talking quietly to his lieutenant Jarvia when they arrived at the shop that was the front for the entrance to his hideout. He was pleased to see them, and even more pleased when they confirmed that he'd been right about Oskias, and handed over the nuggets.

And, of course, he already had another job in mind for the pair of them, helping to fix a fight at the Proving Grounds so that some young long shot named Everd would win his round against a much more experienced warrior named Mainar. Easy enough to arrange, they just had to drug the water supply in his change room.

The only problem would be getting into the Grounds - casteless couldn't attend the fights there, their presence was offensive to warriors, who felt that them even touching a weapon was sufficient to sully it. But Beraht had the answer to that - a pass, identifying them as being there as cleaners. The guard at the front gate still gave them grief before he'd let them in, but that was to be expected. It made Right feel all the better about picking his pocket, the guard foolishly standing too close to him in an attempt to physically intimidate him as he walked by. He mimed fear away even as his hand dipped into the guard's pocket, the guard's own amusement at Right's cowering preventing him from noticing the theft.

* * *

The pair of them paused just inside the doors, looking around. It was the first time Right had even seen the inside of the building. The rough-hewn roof hung comfortably low overhead, supported at regular intervals by stout pillars, ornately carved, with decorative capitals shaped like the heads of famous warriors. Well-dressed spectators roamed the space, exchanging pleasantries as they discussed the upcoming fights, and wagered on the outcomes.

Right grinned hungrily, looking around the room.

"You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?" Leske asked apprehensively. "Beraht will kill us if we get picked up by the guards for pick-pocketing before we've dosed Mainar's water."

"The guards here?" Right sneered. "Look at them - my mother on her worst day would be more attentive then they are!"

Leske had to admit he was right; there were guards around, but duty here tended to be an easy post, apart from the rare occasion when spectators came to blows over the outcome of some particularly closely-contested fight. Most of them just stood there, staring off into space, they eyes dulled with boredom. Not a one was paying any attention to the wandering crowds.

"Come on," Right said, and began circulating around the room, staying as unobtrusive as he could as he casually walked by people, fingers effortlessly harvesting a miscellany of goods and small coin from their pockets and pouches.

He was looking around for another target, having just divested some young woman of a nice gold ring, when he spotted the dark-haired, armour-clad human standing in the middle of the chamber, talking to some red-bearded old man. The human's eyes were on him, watching, an amused look in his dark eyes. Right froze. Had his pick-pocketing been noticed?

"Who's that?" he whispered to Leske, tilting his head to indicate the human.

"Stone's embrace! That's one of them! One of the Grey Wardens," Leske hissed, then grinned. "Oh, I dare you to go over and talk to him. Say 'Welcome to Orzammar, sir, may I drink your bathwater?'"

Right gave him a look. "Why not," he abruptly said, and marched over, ignoring Leske's strangled hiss of surprise and fear.

The man turned to face him as he approached. "Stone met, and blessings on your house," he said, smiling warmly at him. "That was the proper greeting for an outsider the last time I visited Orzammar. Has it changed? Or is there a reason you're looking at me so strangely?"

"In my part of Orzammar, we just go with 'Hello'," Right said, wondering if the human was pulling his leg with so flowery a greeting. Nobles might use such words to each other, he supposed, but no one would ever speak to a casteless that way.

"We do the same in my part of Ferelden. Hello, then. My name is Duncan. I'd say 'of the Grey Wardens', but I suspect you already know that. Pleased to meet you."

"I'm right. Of... of nobody," Right said, lifting his chin as if daring Duncan to comment on it.

"Ah, of course, that's what the face brand means then. I remember that now."

"Yes. And yes, you can have me arrested for harassing you," Right told him belligerently.

A faint smile crossed Duncan's face. "For saying hello? My friend, to a Grey Warden nothing short of a slathering darkspawn waking you in your bedroll counts as harassment. Actually, I'm glad I met you. Whenever we come to Orzammar, we always stay in the Diamond Quarter. You forget how much of the city you miss."

Leske had edged closer as the two of them were talking. Now he tugged on Right's sleeve, eye's flicking to the nearby guards, who'd started to take notice of an obvious casteless talking to the honoured guest for today's fights.

"I have to go now," Right said.

Duncan had followed Leske's glance as well. He smiled understandingly. "Go, then. And let us hope we both find what we're looking for."

He moved off, stopping the approaching guard to ask him some innocuous question. Right and Leske hurried off, Right feeling surprised at how readily the dark-haired human had accepted his presence. He'd heard rumours that things were different on the surface, but he'd never really believed it.

* * *

"Sod it! He's stone drunk! He could draw a dead man for his bout and still lose!" Leske exclaimed.

Right frowned down at the sodden, muttering form sprawled out on the floor. They'd come across Everd's quarters first on their search for Mainar's room. The warrior was certainly in no condition to stand up, much less get into the ring and win a bout. Beraht was _not_ going to be happy about this.

"Hey, I just had an idea..." Leske said.

"Do I want to hear this?" Right asked suspiciously.

"So, you've been rubbing my nose in how you're the meanest thing with a blade, right?" Leske hurriedly answered. "Everd's armour is over there and you're about the same size..."

Right gave him a startled look, then frowned in thought. He _was_ good with a blade; whatever else his unknown father had given him, he'd inherited fast reflexes and a strong body. As a child he'd dreamed of what it would be like to be a warrior caste son, winning fame and glory in the Provings. As a casteless, it was something he could never hope to do. Recklessly, he decided to grab the opportunity with both hands. If he won, they'd keep Beraht happy, and if he lost... well, at least they'd be able to tell beraht that they'd tried their best.

"If I do this, I'll win by skill alone. I won't use the drug." he told Leske abruptly.

Leske agreed, and the two of them quickly outfitted Right in Everd's armour, even as an announcement of Everd's upcoming bout with Mainar echoed through the building. Equipping the shield gave him brief second thoughts - he'd never used one of the sodding things, preferring to have a weapon in each hand instead of a heavy slab of metal weighing him down - but how hard could it be? And Everd's axe was a sweet weapon, with a fine edge honed on it, better then any he'd ever held before.

"Don't forget to keep your helmet down!" Leske hissed after him as he headed toward the arena entrance. He nodded, not looking back.

* * *

"This is a glory proving! Fought under the watchful eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar, for our honoured guests, the Grey Wardens," the announcer's voice boomed out as Right and Mainar approached the centre of the arena.

Right felt his nervousness rising as the announcer continued. He was sweating inside the suit of armour. He'd never realized how heavy the sodding stuff was; just walking out here had taken noticeable effort. That was going to have a big impact on how he fought; his usual style, already hampered by the shield on one arm, would be impossible to manage as encumbered by the armour as he currently was.

He hastily brought his attention back to the match as Mainar spoke some pompous ritual words about the upcoming match. He growled something in response, then the two of them closed, the battle beginning.

Fighting in armour with an axe and shield proved every bit as different - and as difficult! - as he'd feared. A lucky strike early in the match that temporarily stunned Mainar was all that prevented him from losing the match with the first few minutes. Mainar might be old, but he knew his weapons, and moved with a swift economy that made the most of his equipment. But Right had a lot of experience too, in an even tougher school of fighting; street-fighting, where anything goes, and losing meant death or serious injury, with no healers standing by to sooth torn flesh or damaged muscle. He quickly adapted to the heavy axe and armour, and pulled off a creditable victory, Mainar crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap.

The announcer called for a healer and announced the next bout. Right was shocked to hear Everd's name called a second time, and cursed himself for forgetting that winning the one bout wasn't enough; he'd be facing a series of opponents, and if he beat all of those, be moved on to a final match.

He considered throwing the second bout. He'd only needed to win the one to secure Beraht's bet, and getting out of here before anything went wrong would be the wisest course. But... if he lost, he'd most likely be passed out - or faking it - and the healers would take him off to look over. They'd notice he wasn't who he was supposed to be the moment his helmet was removed. Besides - he'd never get another chance to do this, to fight in the arena against the best of the warrior caste. Not in this lifetime, anyway. No, he'd have to try and get through the bouts for now, and hope to slip away afterwards.

He'd achieved a reasonable mastery of his weapons and armour now, and the next two bouts passed with surprising swiftness, versus another experienced warrior named Adalbo, who wielded a massive two-handed axe, and Lenka, an initiate Silent Sister bearing a paired long sword and dagger that he eyed enviously, the sort of weapons he'd only been able to dream of owning.

He heaved a sigh of relief as the announcer was offering congratulations on his entry to the final bout. Just one more fight to get through, and then he'd be away. His relief came too early, however - he heard a growing muttering from the watching audience, and a slurred voice raised querulously behind him.

He turned, to see an obviously drunken Everd staggering into the arena. " _Hey!_ That's _my_ armour!" Everd exclaimed before falling down. Right silently cursed, wishing the man had fallen down a few minutes earlier – _before_ entering the arena, and exposing him as an imposter.

"Who are you? How _dare_ you disrupt this sacred..." the announcer demanded, scowling in anger over the crass interruption of the bout.

"Wait! I know that man!" Mainar exclaimed, rising to his feet from where he'd been seated nearby, watching the bouts after his own earlier loss. "That's Everd! Then... what impostor did I fight!"

"Remove your helmet, warrior, and let all who watched you see your face!" the announcer thundered furiously.

Right grimaced, then drew himself up. In for a copper, in for a sovereign. "I will not!" he replied loudly. "My victories have earned me your respect."

"Your skills are impressive, but you are but one man. Remove your helmet yourself, lest I call the guards and have them do it for you," the announcer replied threateningly. Guards entered the arena and began warily approaching him, weapons at the ready in case he tied to resist.

"Very well. Look then, and see who I am," he responded, removing the helmet and dropping it to the stone by his feet, standing proudly upright, head held high, as the watching audience reacted with horror and vituperation to the presence of a casteless duster in their precious Proving Grounds.

The circling guards closed in. A blow to the back of his head sent him spiralling down into darkness.


	2. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right woke sprawled on the cold stone floor of a small cell, head feeling as if it had nearly been split in two by the blow that had put him out, and the rest of him a collection of aches and pains that spoke eloquently, if silently, of the drubbing the guards must have given him after peeling him out of his borrowed armour.

Right woke sprawled on the cold stone floor of a small cell, head feeling as if it had nearly been split in two by the blow that had put him out, and the rest of him a collection of aches and pains that spoke eloquently, if silently, of the drubbing the guards must have given him after peeling him out of his borrowed armour.

He groaned as he sat up. By the feel of it, he was lucky not to have any broken bones.

"Are you awake yet?" Leske hissed from somewhere nearby. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. What happened?" Right asked, as he staggered over to the door of his cell and peered out, spotting Leske in another cell adjacent to his own. Leske hurriedly explained what little he knew.

"What's the sentence for ridiculing the entire warrior caste?" Right interrupted him after a few minutes.

Leske frowned. "Public whipping. Loss of your left hand for stealing the armour. Loss of your right hand for befouling a smith's work. Flaying for impersonating a higher caste, and if _that_ doesn't kill you, they'll put you to death for polluting the Proving."

Right grimaced. He'd once thought there couldn't be much worse happen to him then gaining Beraht's disapproval. He'd been wrong. This was _much_ worse.

"That Grey Warden suggested exile, but it didn't sound like anyone was listening," Leske added.

He frowned as he took a closer look at their surroundings. "This doesn't look like a typical guard's cell," he said.

Leske looked around. "Huh. I guess not. I mean, I've been in most of them. They don't usually have... this many bloodstains on the wall."

Before they could continue, they heard approaching footsteps. To Right's surprise, Jarvia, Beraht's lieutenant, walked into view, a pair of men following behind her. They stopped at the door to the cell area, dropping into guard stance, while Jarvia approached the pair of them.

"Good, you're awake. Beraht will be glad to heat that."

Right and Leske exchanged uneasy glances.

"Did you come to get us out?" Right asked suspiciously, doubting strongly that the answer was yes.

Jarvia snorted. "Get you out? Who do you think put you in?" she asked disdainfully. "You caused a lot of trouble today. Beraht lost a hundred sovereigns for Lord Vollney. The entire Proving was declared invalid, and the Assembly already called for an investigation. You can't imagine the state Beraht was in when he told me to get you."

By the time she'd finished castigating the two of them, it was clear to Right that he was going to get a chance to compare the inventive cruelty of Beraht to what his official sentence would have been. Not a prospect to bring delight to the heart, or ease to the soul. Churning to the stomach and sweat to the palms, yes.

"Enjoy your last night together, boys. Beraht'll be by soon to make sure you maintain your silence," Jarvia sneered.

She turned and stalked off, one of the guards falling into step behind her, the other remaining behind to stand watch over them. He gave them a disgusted look, spat once on the floor to express his contempt, then turned away, assuming the usual guard position when not under one's commander's eyes of propping up the closest wall.

Right looked around his cell, despairing of escape but not ready to give up hope yet. The walls and floor were solid stone, bare save for some fallen rubble and the rotting remains of a thin pallet of worn, patched blankets. He circled the cell once, lightly tapping the walls and twisting at the bars to see if there was any sign of structural weakness, but for all its apparent age and poor repair the cell was too solidly built to allow for escape.

He held up and shook out the blankets, wrinkling his nose at their sour smell, and the obvious vermin crawling over them, then dropped them to the floor. As he was turning away a pale gleam among the loose rubble nearby caught his eye. He crouched down, finding an age-darkened wooden spoon, smashed to splinters by one of the rocks. It was the lighter wood of the exposed interior that had caught his eye. He picked up the splinters, turning them thoughtfully in his hand. Long enough, and thin enough, but would they be strong enough...

He stepped to the bars, hissing softly to catch Leske's attention, held up the splinters so he could see them, then tossed them one at a time to the waiting dwarf. Leske had always been better at picking locks then he was. He kept an eye on the bored guard while Leske silently fiddled with the lock of his cell door. The quiet click of the lock and faint squeak of the door swinging open made them both freeze, worried that the guard had heard, but he merely shifted position and yawned, oblivious to Leske creeping up behind him until it was too late.

Leske massaged his fist, then hurriedly picked the lock on Right's cell door as well. A quick search of the cell area turned up their belongings in a nearby chest; it was good to have their own weapons and armour back. He'd felt naked without them.

"If we want to get away with this, we can't leave one man alive to tell Beraht what we've done," Leske said as they finished equipping themselves.

Right shot him a look, then nodded. It was all well and good to think of merely knocking the guards unconscious, but you never could tell if you'd hit someone hard enough to keep them down, and they had neither the time nor the rope to tie up every guard they encountered on the way out. The last thing they needed was someone waking up, and either raising the alarm or slipping up behind them when they didn't expect it. Besides, he told himself, it would be no favour to leave them alive; not with the sort of punishments Beraht was likely to inflict on guards who'd had a prisoner escape from right under their noses.

It was a long, nasty night working they way out from the prison cells. The hideout proved to be considerably larger then Right had ever imagined, room after room filled with stores of armour, weapons, potions, traps, and assorted ill-gotten gains. Enough to equip a small army. Guard after guard that he and Leske had to take out, knowing that to fail here meant their death, either relatively cleanly at the hands of the guards themselves, or much more nastily in Beraht's. He closed out the nastiness of what they were having to do, blocked out the pain of his aching body, forcing himself onwards. One step at a time. One body at a time.

He was staggering with exhaustion when they opened one last door to find themselves looking at Beraht himself, engaged in lurid conversation with two of his guardsmen. The three didn't notice Right and Leske for a moment; the startled expression on Beraht's face when he did was almost enough to make Right smile.

"What in sod-all is _that_ doing out of its cage?" Beraht exclaimed, pointing at Right, then scowling angrily as he drew his weapon. "Let's teach this little duster a lesson."

One step at a time, Right reminded himself as he forced his tired body into action yet again. One body at a time.

They killed the bodyguards first. The growing fear on Beraht's face as he realized he was alone, facing two men with every reason to want him dead, and none to keep him alive, would remain a pleasant memory for Right for years to come. As he stared at the lifeless body at his feet, the blood pooling on the stone around it, he realized his face was aching from the fierceness of the grin on his lips. Well, that and his bruises from his earlier mishandling at the hands of the Proving Ground guards.

He stood there a long moment, swaying with exhaustion, only an effort of will keeping him from collapsing to the floor beside the corpse. Leske, on the other hand, was filled with an unholy energy.

"Did you see him there, all, 'When we're done with you?' And you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him!" Leske exclaimed. "You have to be the luckiest duster in Orzammar. Beraht's dead and we're standing here! Hail to the sodding king!"

Right snorted. "I was hoping he'd have time to beg for mercy."

Leske laughed. "Oh, he was begging all right. That look of utter surprise on his face when he tasted his own blood. That was as close to begging as Beraht gets."

Right grunted in agreement. "Let's get out of here before anyone comes to investigate," he said tiredly.

Leske nodded, and the two hurried out of the hideout, exiting through the store that was a front for the Carta's operation.

They emerged in the commons. Right hesitated, not sure which was the better choice at this point; to try to lose themselves in Dust Town and hope no one betrayed them to the Carta or the guards, or to try and make it out of the city to the Deep Roads or the surface. Tunnels filled with darkspawn, or leaving the Stone – what a choice to have to make!

Before he and Leske could take more then a couple steps away from the door, guards emerged from hiding nearby.

"There they are! Seize the fugitives!" one bellowed, the guards quickly spreading out to encircle them, weapons at the ready. More guards then he and Leske had any hope of handling.

The Proving Master stepped forward, scowling fiercely at the pair of them, the human Duncan trailing along a step behind him. "Drop your weapons and walk down slowly. We will use force if you resist." he ordered harshly.

Right sighed as he lowered his daggers. "If this is your idea of a heroic rescue, you're too late," he said sarcastically.

"You do not speak until the shapers have judged you!" the Proving Master barked.

Duncan stepped forward, raising one hand. "One moment, my friend. Did you not suggest this Beraht might have arranged their convenient escape?"

The Proving Master gave him an annoyed look. "Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a higher caste is death."

"If Beraht is as influential as you say, perhaps he also masterminded this Everd's impersonation," Duncan suggested.

Right snorted. Not like they could ask Beraht about that now. "Last I saw Beraht, he was suffering from a bad case of dead."

That led to a lot of excitement on the part of the Proving Master and the surrounding guards. Leske couldn't resist chiming in either, pointing out that the two of them would be dead if Right hadn't of killed Beraht. Right stood listening quietly, wanting nothing more then to lie down and sleep. Preferably for several days. Even these stone steps were starting to look awfully comfortable. He looked up, and found the Warden looking at him speculatively.

"Your friend has once again demonstrated his courage," Duncan interrupted the heated conversation, as he spoke to Leske with a deliberately raised voice. "We Grey Wardens travel far and wide in search of those with the potential to join our ranks. It seems I have found one," he finished, turning to look at Right.

Right frowned at him. "Are you asking me to become a Grey Warden?" he asked.

"Let me make my offer formal. I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation for you to join our order."

"This man is a criminal. You can't do this!" The Proving Master exclaimed, face suffusing with red in his anger.

"I can and I am," Duncan told him, then turned back to Right. "It would mean travelling to the surface lands and thus leaving your people, but it does offer you the chance to strike a blow against the darkspawn and the Blight."

Right looked around, at the encircling heavily-armed guards, at the incandescently angry Proving Master. He shuddered, remembering Leske's description of the fate awaiting him at their hands. Compared to that, travelling to the surface and fighting darkspawn sounded like a walk in the park.

"Then sodding yes, let's get out of here now," he said.

Duncan nodded. "Then before these witnesses, I hereby recruit you into the Grey Wardens. Know that you are most welcome."

"This is _highly_ irregular. The warrior families will be... most upset..." the Proving Master sputtered.

Leske grinned at Right. "Look at you, you duster! A Warden! And to think I knew you when you were stealing bread!"

"We must be off to meet the king of Ferelden. And quickly. Do you have any goodbyes to say?" Duncan asked.

Right thought a moment. Leske was right here. Rica would hear, soon enough, about what had happened to him – and to her sponsor, Beraht. If she was lucky, she'd land a patron before the pass to the Diamond Quarter parties he'd wrangled for her ran out. If not... well, there was nothing he could do to help her now, and trying to talk to her would only focus unwelcome attention on her. Their mother... he'd just have to hope Rica looked after her. There was no one else he cared to speak to.

"No. Let's go now," he said.

Duncan nodded. He exchanged a few words with the Proving Master and one of the guards – formal farewells, and a request for his things to be brought from his quarters – then stepped over to Right and stood looking thoughtfully down at him. "You can put those away," he said dryly, nodding at the daggers still clutched in Right's hands, an amused look briefly crossing his face. "You won't be needing them right away."

Right looked down, nodded muzzily, wiped the bloodied weapons as clean as he could, and returned them to their sheaths.

"This way," Duncan said, and turned away, obviously trusting that Right would follow along behind him.

Not that he had any choice about it – he had little doubt that the guards were keeping an eye on him, and any attempt to escape would be swiftly ended, likely in as lethal a manner as they could manage. They were _not_ happy about him escaping his fate this way.

He trudged along at Duncan's back, hoping they didn't have too long a walk ahead of them before he could finally rest. He was barely aware of where they were, sets of doors opening and closing for them, until an unfamiliar smell born on a cold breeze made him look up.

Outside. He was outside, on the surface. Surrounded by strangeness, made even stranger by the darkness. He looked up, knew he was gaping in wonder and didn't care. "What... what _are_ those things, those little lights way up there? They're not glowworms, are they?" he asked apprehensively.

"They're stars," Duncan answered calmly. "That's the night sky."

He gulped and looked down. Something occluded the sky further down, a jagged shape – a mountain, he slowly realized, as seen from the outside. It was _huge_ and so far away – and the stars were even further away then _that_...

He felt insignificantly small, a tiny flyspeck at the bottom of a vast unknowable chasm. It was too much. He sighed, dropping to the ground for the second time in one night as darkness overwhelmed him.


	3. To Ostagar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right lay on his back, staring up at the tent cloth overhead. He could hear movement outside; Duncan, preparing breakfast for the two of them by the sound and smell of it. He rolled over on his side, wincing as the movement made his slowly healing injuries ache. He'd been right that his beating by the guardsman might have given him broken bones; he'd woken on the surface to find a healer working on binding up his cracked ribs while Duncan supported him upright. Waking to find himself being handled like a doll or a small child by the two humans had not put him in the best of moods. Though at least the supportive bandaging, and the healing draughts they'd given him afterwards, had helped with the worst of the aches and pains.

Right lay on his back, staring up at the tent cloth overhead. He could hear movement outside; Duncan, preparing breakfast for the two of them by the sound and smell of it. He rolled over on his side, wincing as the movement made his slowly healing injuries ache. He'd been right that his beating by the guardsman might have given him broken bones; he'd woken on the surface to find a healer working on binding up his cracked ribs while Duncan supported him upright. Waking to find himself being handled like a doll or a small child by the two humans had not put him in the best of moods. Though at least the supportive bandaging, and the healing draughts they'd given him afterwards, had helped with the worst of the aches and pains.

Even so, the healer had predicted it would be days, perhaps weeks, until Right was ready to undertake the long walk to Ostagar. Duncan had agreed with the healer's estimate, and sent the rest of the party on ahead, electing to take his time getting Right there.

The first day Right had done nothing more strenuous then lie around in his bedroll and sleep a lot. The second day he'd ventured out of the tent, though Duncan had refused to let him do anything more strenuous then sit by the fire and work on cleaning his gear and sharpening his weapons. He had to admit the human was right; even that left him feeling shaky and exhausted. He'd really pushed himself to the wall, in that long fight to escape from the Carta's hideout. He was lucky to be alive.

Though sometimes he half-wished he was back in Orzammar. It was just so _strange_ out here, that vast sky overheard, the tall trees – pines, Duncan had told him – towering over them on every side, backed by the even taller mountains. Strange to see mountains from the outside. Stranger yet to have a vast light _nothingness_ overhead, instead of good strong stone and lamp-lit darkness.

He'd never have thought that he'd miss Dust Town, if he ever managed to leave it, and yet – he did. It didn't smell right out here. No rock dust, no odours of garbage or sewage, no stench of unwashed bodies tightly packed together in too little space. No smell of nugs – the beasts themselves, or their droppings, or the ever present smell of them cooking. He even missed the sour smell of the mosswine his mother drank, the fusty odour of lichen ale. Ancestors, but he could kill a flagon of lichen ale right now.

"Breakfast is ready," he heard Duncan calmly calling from outside the tent. "Do you need a hand getting out?"

He sighed. "No, I can manage," he responded, and stiffly pushed himself to his feet, barely needing to bend his head to clear the peaked cloth overhead. The much taller Duncan, he was sure, had to bend right in half to step into his own tent.

He emerged to find Duncan sitting on one end of a log drawn up near the fire pit, eating neatly from a tin plate, a second plate of food sitting invitingly at the end closest to Right.

Right grunted as he stooped to pick it up, before lowering himself to sit on the end of the log, digging into the good hot food. He glanced curiously at Duncan as he ate. The man puzzled him. He was clearly the leader of the group of Grey Wardens that had come to Orzammar, yet rather then leaving Right behind in the hands of one of his lesser companions, he'd elected to take on the job of tending him himself, delaying his own journey.

Duncan glanced over at him. "Think you'll be up to a little travel today?" he asked. "I'd prefer for us to be further away from Orzammar – the guards are still unhappy about my recruitment of you. The sooner we're out of their sight, the sooner they'll be able to forget their grudge against the two of us."

Right nodded. "As long as you don't want to move too fast," he said. "I don't think I'm up to fast just yet. Though that could change at a moment's notice if a homicidal guard steps out of the bushes."

Duncan laughed. "I don't think any are in the area, but since I can't detect guards the way I can detect darkspawn, I can't guarantee it. Finish your breakfast while I pack up our things," Duncan added as he rose to his feet, putting his empty plate aside. "Save your energy for the road."

Right nodded. After he'd finished, he took their plates and the frying pan over to a nearby stream, giving them a good scrubbing with cold water and sand before bringing them back for Duncan to stow away. He frowned as he saw the older man putting on a significantly larger backpack then the one he'd made for Right to carry, but didn't protest; he knew that trying to carry more then he was really capable of at the moment would only delay them further, and he was starting to feel as anxious to be away from the area and on the move as Duncan was.

They didn't get far the first day, just a few hours sedate walk further down the valley, but it was a start. Each day Right woke a little less sore, and tired a little more slowly. By the time they'd rounded the south-eastern jut of Lake Calenhad and turned off the east-running road to head south to Ostagar, Right was putting in a full day of travel at a punishing pace with an equal share of their gear, and feeling good at the end of it, his bandages long since removed, rerolled and packed away against future need.

* * *

They were still a day out of Ostagar. The landscape had changed again as they journeyed south, from the rolling hills and sudden cliffs surrounding the lake to forested mountains. Ostagar, Right had been given to understand, bridged a pass leading down south of the mountains to the swampy lowlands of the Korcari Wilds.

He felt much more at ease with Duncan after the weeks they'd spent journeying around the lake together. The taciturn man had answered the many questions he'd had as they traveled, but also respected his lengthy silences, not probing into his background as others might have done. Once Right had healed enough, he had insisted on them doing a little sparring each evening in camp, to keep both of them fit and ready for battle. Right had quickly learned a thorough respect for the older man's abilities with a blade. He knew he was a damned good fighter; Duncan was better, and generous with tips when asked for advice. And equally generous with praise when Right proved an apt pupil for the skills he had to teach.

His lessons had covered more then weaponry; he'd also taught Right a little about the strange surface world as they traveled, things that surfacers probably grew up knowing, like what a sky filling with dark grey clouds meant, and what plants one should keep an eye out for, either as food, or to put aside for later use in healing or harming.

Altogether, Right was feeling much better about this whole "becoming a Grey Warden" thing then he'd expected when he'd first left Orzammar. He'd always enjoyed fighting, and by the sound of it, he had a lot of it ahead of him, against people – well, things – that most people would applaud his slaying of, rather then looking down on him for. If he'd been born into the warrior caste back home, he'd have been pretty much _expected_ to go out and slay darkspawn. It was what the warrior caste was _for_. In some ways, this becoming a Grey Warden was like having his childhood dreams come true. But only in some ways; his dreams had never including leaving home, or having to spend the rest of his life out in this vast emptiness.

He looked up from sharpening his weapons – something he did every night after their practice bout ended – and watched for a moment as Duncan did the same, finishing off by running an oiled rag the length of his sword to protect the metal from moisture.

"Duncan, can I ask you something?" Right suddenly asked.

Duncan glanced over at him as he sheathed his sword. "Of course," he said. "Though I can't guarantee I will answer it."

Right shifted uncomfortably, watching as Duncan drew his dagger and started honing its edge. "That first time we met, at the Proving Grounds. You were watching me, weren't you? You knew that I..." he trailed off awkwardly.

A faint smile crossed Duncan's lips. He glanced over at Right, then looked back at the ruddy dagger in his hand. "I knew that you were pick pocketing? Yes," he said.

Right flushed. "So you know I'm little more then a... a common thief, and hired muscle."

"So was I, once," Duncan answered calmly. "How else do you think I recognized what you were doing?"

Right stared at him, startled. "A thief? You?"

"Yes. A thief. Me." Duncan confirmed. He silently drew the dagger along the whetstone again, then lowered the blade and looked over at Right again. "That was a long time ago, and very far away from here. It led to me being recruited into the Grey Wardens, much as your own... crimes... led you into them."

"Oh," Right said. He suspected there was a long story behind that simple statement. And not one Duncan wished to share at the moment, judging by the introspective look on the man's face. He thought of asking – but Duncan had respected his own silences. He'd do the same. If Duncan chose to tell him someday, he'd be all ears.

–

They reached Ostagar in mid-morning of the next day. The air was chill with the approach of winter, a season that came more rapidly and with greater force in these southern heights then it did further north. Snow already cloaked many of the surrounding peaks; it couldn't be much longer until winter reached here as well.

Ostagar proved to be an extensive ruin, a long-abandoned yet still impressive outpost of the former Tevinter Empire.

"I've been told the stonework here is particularly well-done," Duncan observed as they followed the causeway up to the ruined eastern gates.

Right glanced around, shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said. "I'm not a miner or a stonecutter. As far as I'm concerned, stone is stone, and as long as I don't trip over a chunk of it, or have a piece drop on my head, it's well enough."

Duncan laughed. "Well, you'll want to watch your toes – and your head! - in some parts of Ostagar. The ruins were abandoned centuries ago, and the stonework is showing its age."

Right nodded. As they passed through the gate, they encountered a man in gold-washed armour strolling along the roadway, two guards at his back. His face lit with a welcoming smile at the sight of the two of them.

"Ho there, Duncan!" he called out, walking over to meet them.

"King Cailan? I didn't expect..." Duncan started to say, but was cut off by the man – the human king, judging by Duncan's words. Right looked at him curiously. He'd never seen a king before.

"A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious! The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?" King Cailan asked, looking with interest at Right.

Right shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily. The attention of the noble born was never a good thing to have, in his experience.

"Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty." Duncan said.

"No need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together, after all. Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?"

The King's overly familiar attitude put Right's back up. He reminded himself that this noble was no king of _his_ , and scowled. "I'm no friend of yours, human lord."

The King chuckled, seeming amused by his attitude. "You've got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And I was beginning to think the Wardens were all stodgy priests! " He turned back to Right. "It's good to see one of the honourable stout folk outside Orzammar."

Right gave him a suspicious look. "Who're you calling 'stout?' Is that some kind of dig?"

"I apologize if I offended you. I have only the deepest respect for your people," King Cailan hastily apologized. "I've been to Orzammar. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving, long ago. How does Endrin fare these days?"

"I don't know and I don't care," Right growled. Him? Know anything about the King? This King Cailan knew little to nothing about dwarfs.

King Cailan looked taken aback. "Ah. Still, I hope to be as wise and fair a ruler as Endrin," he said, then hastily changed the subject. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."

"We'll see about that," Right answered shortly.

The King turned back to Duncan, the two conversing briefly before King Cailan walked off again. Duncan gave Right a long look, then smiled. He gestured, and the two headed towards a bridge spanning the ravine that divided the fortification in half, walking slowly to give King Cailan time to outpace them. He could tell Duncan didn't approve of the way he'd spoken to the human king, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Duncan gave him a bewildering series of instructions. The only ones that stuck out for him were to spend some time exploring the camp if he wished, and to find some other human Grey Warden named Alistair. He grunted, watching Duncan stride off across the bridge, and looked around. Explore the camp. Sure, he could do that. Always a good idea to know where the nearest bolt-holes were, if nothing else.


	4. The King's Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right wandered the camp for a while, finding much to see, and more then a few things to pocket. Stores of armour, weapons, and other gear were stashed in odd corners of the sprawling ruin, and it was easy enough to make off with a handful of arrows here, a pair of boots there, without removing so much that anyone would necessarily notice his petty pilferage. Somewhere in camp, he was sure, would be someone willing to profit off it all, and having some ready coin in his pockets couldn't hurt.

Right wandered the camp for a while, finding much to see, and more then a few things to pocket. Stores of armour, weapons, and other gear were stashed in odd corners of the sprawling ruin, and it was easy enough to make off with a handful of arrows here, a pair of boots there, without removing so much that anyone would necessarily notice his petty pilferage. Somewhere in camp, he was sure, would be someone willing to profit off it all, and having some ready coin in his pockets couldn't hurt.

He gawked for a while at a tall tower on the eastern side, near where he and Duncan had encountered King Cailan. For all his dismissive words to Duncan earlier about his ability – or lack thereof – to judge stonework, even he could tell that is was an impressive, solidly-built structure, to have withstood so many years under the open sky.

The route to the tower was closed and guarded, and there wasn't much else to see on this side of the ravine, so he finally ventured out onto the bridge crossing over to the western side, where the main camp was. He eyed the damaged sections of stonework warily, but the roadway seemed solid enough underfoot, and crossing over the tree-filled ravine was no more worrisome then passing above the lava-filled pit that flowed under the bridge to the Proving Grounds. A longer drop, maybe, but just as lethal in the end.

The western side of the camp proved to be filled with a considerable bustle, people scurrying around everywhere on various errands, or standing around in groups talking together or listening to others talk. He watched some mages at work for a while, fascinated by the swirling energies that surrounded them. He'd never seen a mage before; heard of them, yes, but dwarfs couldn't be mages, so exposure to them in Orzammar was pretty much non-existent. Besides, even if one _had_ come visiting, they'd doubtless be a guest in the Diamond Quarter, not left to wander around down to where the lowly casteless in Dust Town might glimpse them.

After awhile he became aware that a white-haired human woman was standing nearby, dividing her attention between the mages and him Her steady look made him feel uneasy. He turned away from the mages, and started to walk away – a route that brought him past the woman – only to have her step forward, raising one hand slightly to catch his attention.

"Greetings, young man. You are Duncan's newest recruit, are you not? He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud," she said, then smiled at him with an unexpectedly welcoming smile. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king."

"I am Right," he growled back.

A slight smile crossed her face. "Would that we could all say the same," she said dryly.

Right flushed. He'd always enjoyed the joke his name made, before... but something about her amusement made it seem less entertaining, somehow. "Can't _win_ them all," he snapped back, feeling aggravated.

To his surprise, she laughed. Not just some delicate little giggle or titter either, but a full-bellied laugh, her smile stretching wide, deep laugh-lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. "Well met, and good luck to you on the battlefield. To us all, in fact," she said with warm approval.

Her approval made him even more uncomfortable. "I should get going," he said abruptly.

"Well, don't let this old mage distract you from your duties. I'm sure Duncan has much for you to do," she said, smiling still, and nodded farewell to him as he turned away.

Strange old bird, he thought, then dismissed her from his thoughts.

* * *

He wandered the camp for a while longer, quickly locating someone willing to relieve him of the weight of his acquisitions in exchange for coin. The Quartermaster, unsurprisingly; naturally anyone with an eye on profit would gravitate to such a potentially lucrative position as soon as they could arrange it, by any means necessary, fair or foul. Equally unsurprisingly, the man had a second, unofficial stock of off-the-record goods of questionable provenance or legality. Right was fascinated by some of the things he stocked, but had always preferred a straight-forward knife to the throat over fiddling around with poisons and traps.

"Tell you what, first one's free," the Quartermaster told him, handing him a small glass vial of an oily green-brown liquid. "Give it a try – I'm sure you'll like it. If you do, I can supply you with more, or even the recipes and ingredients to make it yourself; deathroot grows wilds all over the place. And if you don't, well, at least you'll have tried it, right?"

"Errr... right," Right agreed, pocketing the vial.

He turned away to find a skinny dark-haired human with a bow hung at his back giving him a once-over. "Well, you're not what I thought you'd be," the man said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Right asked suspiciously.

"Oh, me and ser knight were just betting on what the third recruit would be. Not a dwarf. Yet here you are. The name's Daveth. It's about bloody time you came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit."

Another recruit of Duncan's, it seemed. The two talked briefly, then Daveth wandered off in search of Duncan, while Right continued his explorations. Climbing a ramp near to the Quartermaster's area brought him to what was obviously an infirmary area. He kept well away from the sick and injured; he didn't like the reminder of his own mortality they provided.

He found himself near a set of hanging cages, one occupied by a scrawny man, naked but for his smalls. The man reached one hand out through the bars, giving him a beseeching look.

"I don't suppose you have a bit of kindness in you? All I want is food and water. They haven't fed me since I was locked up, and I'm starving," the man whined piteously.

"Why would I want to help you?" Right asked.

The prisoner glanced toward the guard lounging nearby, back turned to the pair of them, then lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Because you might want something I don't need. Them Circle wizards got a chest they keep things in, magical things... and I stole the key. That's why I'm here. I got one of them drunk, took his key, and tried to sneak to the chest. They assumed I was deserting. I can't use it from here, but I'd trade you for some food and water."

"They didn't find the key when you were arrested?"

"I swallowed it. But it's... uhhhh... come back into my possession since then, so to speak," the prisoner said. He glanced at the guard again, then spat a small key into his hand and held it up. "See?"

Right grinned. "I'll take that," he said, hand darting through the bars.

"What? But... you can't do that!" the prisoner gasped out, trying to prevent Right from wrestling the key away from his grasp. He turned his head, opened his mouth, clearly about to call for the guard. Right hissed a curse and cut his throat, quickly slipping the key into a pocket.

The guard hurried over, drawn by the commotion. "What! What in Andraste's name did you do that for?" he exclaimed, staring the the dying prisoner.

"He lunged at me. I had to defend myself," Right growled, cleaning his dagger and re-sheathing it.

"Mmm. I suppose you did, at that. Fair enough," the guard said, then shrugged. "Well, no skin off my teeth. When they ask me why he's dead, that's what I'll tell them."

He turned and left, probably to report to whomever had assigned him to guard the prisoner that the prisoner was no longer in need of guarding.

Right glanced around. No one else in the area seemed to have noticed what had happened; even the next-closest person, a large balding man in armour, listening attentively to some surfacer priestess intoning some sort of blessing, was oblivious to what had just happened. Still, best to get out of the area, Right decided; he didn't like the thought that people might remember his face in connection with a killing, even of someone as comparatively inconsequential as the prisoner.

He hurried over to a nearby open gate, only to be stopped by a guard. "Sorry, the main army camp is off limits for you right now," the guard said warningly.

Right frowned, then nodded and turned away. Though the open gate he'd glimpsed serried ranks of tents. Clearly that was where the main body of the army were encamped, and he'd stick out like a sore thumb among the humans there anyway. He headed down a nearby ramp, and started to work back east, finding himself in an area with pens of dogs. No, not _just_ dogs, he reminded himself – the Mabari warhounds of legend, four-legged killing machines that were as much a part of the Ferelden armies as the humans were.

He wandered along the row of kennels, peering in at the dogs curiously. Most just sat calmly, gazing back at him, with the odd warning growl. They stood almost as tall as he did, with massive forequarters and heavily muscled heads, mouths opening to display sharp teeth. He shivered, imagining what it would be like to have one of _those_ going for his throat.

Halfway along the row, he came across a human man standing by one pen, frowning in concern as he looked at the hound inside, and muttering to himself. He looked up as Right started to ease past him.

"Are you the new Warden? I could use some help," he said.

"I don't know anything about dogs," Right growled, trying to step around the man, only to have him block his path.

"It's not what you know so much as what you are, really," the man said, an edge of desperation in his voice. "This is a mabari. Smart breed, and strong. His owner died in the last battle, and the poor hound swallowed darkspawn blood. I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first."

"Why do you think I could muzzle him?" Right asked, puzzled.

"You're a Grey Warden, or soon will be. All Wardens are immune to the darkspawn taint. The most you have to worry about is some tooth marks."

"No, I'm not interested. I should go," Right said.

The man looked disappointed. "Let me know if you change your mind. Otherwise, I'll have to put him down."

Right hesitated, and looked at the hound in the pen. As large as all the others he'd seen, but instead of resting quietly it was pacing in circles in its pen, head lowered, slaver trailing in strings and foamy gobs from its mouth. As if sensing his regard, it raised its massive head and turned to look at him quizzically, whining once, before resuming its pacing.

"I'll give it a shot," Right abruptly said.

The man looked relieved. "Go in the pen and let him smell you. We'll know right away if he'll respond. Let's hope this works. I would really hate to have to put him down."

Right nodded, accepted the muzzle the man proffered, and entered the pen. The dog whined, and backed a step or two away from him.

"Easy, boy," he said softly.

It whined a second time, then lowered its head, standing motionless, legs braced, as he cautiously approached it. He felt a surge of relief as he slipped the heavy leather muzzle on and quickly buckled it in place, restraining those massive jaws, and even more relief as he stepped from the pen and the gate closed behind him. Even muzzled, a dog that big could likely do him an injury. He must have been insane to voluntarily do this. He still wasn't sure why he had – it's not like there was even any profit in it for him.

"Well done! Now I can treat the dog properly - poor fellow," the kennel master said. "Come to think of it, are you heading into the Wilds any time soon?"

Right remember Daveth saying something about a possible trip into the Wilds. "I might be. Why?" he asked guardedly.

He listened to the man's explanation, and nodded. If he did find himself out in the wilds, it couldn't hurt to keep an eye open for a flower. "I'll see if I can find one," he agreed.

* * *

He wandered the camp a while longer, picking up a few more gleanings to bring to the Quartermaster later. He stood a while, listening to a human soldier giving a lesson about darkspawn to a group of soldiers, then started to head back north through the camp, only to be nearly knocked off his feet as a young elven boy came hurtling around a tent and ran right into him.

"I'm sorry!" The boy exclaimed, before dropping to his knees to begin gathering up the scrolls and packages he'd been carrying, and dropped as a result of the impact. Right eyed the packages, wondering if any of them contained something valuable. The boy realized he was still standing there, and looked up apprehensively. "Is there something you needed?" he asked.

"Yes, I do," Right quickly lied, then paused, mind racing as he tried to think up some further lie that would get one or more of the packets into his own hands.

The boy bounced to his feet looking worried. "Then what is...? Oh, wait! Are you the one I'm supposed to give Ser Garlen's sword to? Because I think the smith's done with it," he exclaimed, proffering a lengthy bundle.

Ancestors, the boy was making this easy for him!. Right gave him a reassuring smile. "Yes, you're supposed to give the sword to me," he said.

"Oh, that's such a relief! You really saved me from the switch, for sure!" the boy exclaimed, handed over the sword, and pelted off again, clutching his remaining scrolls and packages to his narrow chest. Right watched him go, snorted, and quickly hid the still-wrapped sword away in his pack. He'd look it over later – some place where no one might question how he'd laid his hands on such a fine blade. For now, best to get away from this end of the camp; sooner or later someone was going to figure out that the messenger had given the sword to the wrong person. And, he belatedly realized, him being the only dwarf in the camp made him all too easy to identify. That possible trip into the Wilds was sounding better and better.

* * *

He was poking around in the northern end of the ruins when he finally stumbled across the Grey Warden that Duncan had told him to find, talking to a mage. He didn't know who it was, at first – not until after the mage had stalked off, an expression of disgust on his face, and the tall, blond-haired man strolled over to Right.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," the man drawled.

"You are a very strange human," Right responded, giving him a leery look.

"You're not the first to tell me that," he responded dryly, then frowned, looking puzzled. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Right gave him an incredulous look. He was a _dwarf_! Dwarfs couldn't be mages!

"Wait, I _do_ know who you are. You're Duncan's new recruit, from Orzammar," the man exclaimed, his blue-green eyes lighting up as he gave Right a friendly smile. "Allow me to introduce myself: I'm Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I guess you knew that. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

"I can't prepare on my own?" Right asked, not liking the thought of having to be accompanied anywhere by this cretin.

"I know. I felt the same way when I did this. Unfortunately, they don't give us much choice," Alistair said, then gave him a curious look. "Hmm. There haven't been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time. You must know a lot about darkspawn."

Right scowled. Ancestors save him from clueless humans. "Not really. I spent more time fighting guardsmen, myself," he said bitterly. "No one trusts someone like me with anything that important."

"Someone like you? The recruit Duncan's been bragging endlessly about?" Alistair said, sounding genuinely surprised, then frowned. "I, uh, guess you've got a more colourful background than Duncan let on."

"But don't worry, you'll see plenty of darkspawn now, and probably sooner than you'd like," he continued. "Anyhow, whenever you're ready let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

Right nodded, and turned away. He'd spotted Duncan earlier, standing near a large bonfire just south of the middle of the camp. He headed that way, stopping by the Quartermaster to sell off the last of his gleanings, doing his best to ignore the tall blond shadow he seemed to have acquired.

* * *

Duncan was pleased to see them. Daveth, whom he'd met earlier, was standing waiting as well, along with the balding man that Right remembered seeing up in the infirmary area earlier. He turned out to be a knight, one Ser Jory by name.

Duncan spent a few minutes scolding Alistair for having aggravated the mage that Right had seen him talking to earlier, before explaining that the three recuits needed to journey south into the Korcari Wilds together to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood – one for each of them – as well as searching for some documents in the ancient ruins that spotted the swamps. Alistair would accompany the three of them on their trip, which would likely take several days. They were to leave first thing the next morning.


	5. Korcari Wilds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took them over half a day just to work their way down from the pass that Ostagar guarded to the lowland swamps south of the mountains. The descent at least took them from the chill of the heights into warmer weather; still noticeably autumnal, but at least without such a chill to it. It wasn't long until they had their first introduction to the wildlife; they'd barely entered the wild before being set upon by a pack of wolves, desperate for food as the approach of both winter and the darkspawn horde drove their usual game out of their range.

It took them over half a day just to work their way down from the pass that Ostagar guarded to the lowland swamps south of the mountains. The descent at least took them from the chill of the heights into warmer weather; still noticeably autumnal, but at least without such a chill to it. It wasn't long until they had their first introduction to the wildlife; they'd barely entered the wild before being set upon by a pack of wolves, desperate for food as the approach of both winter and the darkspawn horde drove their usual game out of their range.

Daveth proved to have a good hand with his bow, standing calmly and sending arrow after arrow winging into the swirling mass of furred bodies, while Alistair and Ser Jory waded in, swords rising and falling. Alistair's lighter one-handed sword was faster and more responsive, but when Ser Jory had his larger two-handed sword properly wound up, it scythed through the beasts. Right moved around the edges of the melee, sinking his new sword or his offhand dagger into any reasonably vital spot that presented itself. Between the four of them, they made short work of the pack.

Daveth set to work on skinning out the beasts, while Alistair and Jory stood leaning on their swords, gulping in great gasps of air, slowly getting their breath back. Right remembered how exhausting heavy armour and shield had been to use at the Proving, and was glad he was in his usual leather armour and bearing considerably lighter weapons.

He wandered over and watched Daveth skinning one of the wolves, quickly picking up on the technique required, and between the two of them they soon had all the salvageable furs removed, salted, rolled up, and stashed away in their packs. By then Alistair and Jory were ready to move on again as well.

It wasn't long before they stumbled over the body of someone who hadn't been as adept at dealing with wolves as they; a somewhat gnawed-upon body, sprawled face-down in the reeds edging one of the omnipresent stretches of open water that were scattered throughout the swamplands. They searched the body, finding little to identify it, then moved on.

They headed onwards, deeper and deeper in. The swamp seemed quiet, with no sign of darkspawn. An hour of slogging over the spongy ground brought them to the first ruins, a stretch of empty arches cutting across their path. Here, too, they found the first sign of darkspawn; the gory remains of a patrol that had fallen to darkspawn ambush, by the look of it.

They were standing looking over the carnage, Alistair with a grim expression on his face, Daveth, Jory and Right all looking equally unsettled, when one of the bodies moved, groaned. They hurried over.

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?" Alistair asked rhetorically, then crouched down at his side. "Let's try to bandage him up, at least."

"What happened?" Jory asked, sounding fearful.

"My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn!" the wounded man coughed out. "They came out of the ground… Please, help me! I've got to… return to camp…"

Right frowned, thinking of how long it had taken them just to get here. "We don't have time for this," he pointed out.

Alistair glanced up, giving him a disbelieving look. ""We don't have time? What, you have an urgent meeting somewhere?" he asked acerbically, then tied a final bandage. "See? No time at all. We can take you back," he offered the wounded man.

The man shook his head as he unsteadily rose to his feet. "Thank you! But I can get back by myself. I... I've got to get out of here!" he exclaimed, and staggered off, back in the direction they'd came.

"Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!" Ser Jory exclaimed, his eyes wide and worried. "How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire _army_ in these forests!"

"There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde," Alistair said soothingly.

"How do you know? I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back." Jory exclaimed.

Right snorted. He didn't like the idea of encountering a mass of darkspawn any more then Jory did, but that was what they were out here for, wasn't it? "You sound like a coward to _me_ ," he muttered, earning a dark look from Alistair.

Alistair eventually convinced Jory to continue on. They set off deeper into the swamp, trying to keep an even higher level of awareness of their surroundings.

Even so, they almost missed noticing the darkspawn lying in wait for them; it was only Alistair's sudden hiss of alarm that alerted them to the dark shapes hidden in the grass and bushes ahead. The fight was brief but intense. At the end, Right was surprised to find all of the creatures dead, and them uninjured; apparently for all their human-like appearance, the blighted creatures were rather lacking when it came to brains and co-ordination, relying more on numbers and sheer brutality then skill or strategy. The three recruits each filled a vial with blood, under Alistair's watchful eye.

"Well, that was easier then I thought it would be," Daveth exclaimed. "Can we go back now?"

"We still need to find those documents. If they're even here," Alistair pointed out.

They slogged deeper into the swamp. They encountered wolves once more, and a few random pockets of darkspawn creatures, none of which proved any more difficult to deal with then the ones they'd already encountered. It wasn't until the sun was slipping down the sky towards nightfall that they finally had an encounter that almost finished their quest right then and there.

They were approaching another cluster of ruins. Alistair squinted toward them. "It that a tent I see?" he said. "Looks like someone is camped here."

They picked up their pace.

"Look, someone's there," Jory said as a dark figure moved past one of the arched openings in the ruins, and moved forward even faster, raising his hand and calling out. "Ho! The camp!"

The figure paused. There was a whirring sound, and Jory grunted, then dropped to the ground, blood sheeting across his face from an injury to his head. "Arrows!" Daveth exclaimed, already pulling his own bow from his back.

"Darkspawn!" Alistair roared in turn, even as more dark figures appeared among the stones and rushed toward them, easily twice as many as any of their previous encounters.

With Jory already down and out of the battle, it was a hard-fought effort to defeat the darkspawn. Alistair shouted and yelled, keeping the attention of the swarming darkspawn on himself, while Daveth picked off the distant archers one by one, and Right circled around the fight, wrecking as much mayhem as he could.

Eventually the last darkspawn fell, Alistair's sword having cut its head off entirely. Alistair leaned on his sword, panting, and looked around, then shrugged. "As good a place as any to camp for the night," he observed tiredly, then leaned down and checked on the still-unconscious Jory. "Scalp wound. Those bleed a lot," he observed. "Bring him along," he said, and set off towards the nearby tent.

Daveth and Right managed to get Jory upright, and half-carry, half-drag him over to the campsite. He didn't start to stir until they were lowering him to the ground beside the unlit firepit. When he came round a few minutes later, he was ashamed to discover he'd missed a fight. He offered to give Daveth and Right a hand with cleaning up the camp – Alistair had set them to dragging away the bodies of the darkspawn Daveth had felled with his arrows – but when he tried to rise to his feet, proved too woozy from his head injury to do so. Alistair made him sit down again, and got out more of his bandages.

"He's lucky to be alive, he is," Daveth muttered to Right as they hauled away another body. "Arrow glanced off his thick skull. Could have killed him just as easily, if it had hit differently."

Right grunted in agreement. By the time the two of them had finished cleaning up the camp, Alistair had Jory's head bound up, and the makings of a rough stew coming to a simmer over a small fire.

They searched through the belongings scattered around the camp while their supper cooked, then ate, all three recruits feeling so tired they could barely lift spoon to mouth. Alistair, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the lengthy day they'd had, and inhaled two full plates of stew in record time.

"Jory, you're on clean-up," he ordered, putting his scraped-clean plate on the ground near the man's feet. "I don't want you taking a watch tonight with that head injury. I'll take first watch, Right will take second, and Daveth can handle third."

Right made a face. He didn't relish the notion of having to get up in the middle of the night and then try to sleep again. But Alistair was in charge.

* * *

Right sank back down by the glowing embers of the fire, stretching out his hands to warm them over the glowing coals. It might be warmer here then it had been up in the mountains, but it certainly wasn't _warm_ , especially at night. Every time he had to get up and walk a circle around the camp, he felt colder and stiffer. Give him a good warm cave any day; this surface life was for nug-thumpers.

He added a piece of wood to the fire, then picked up a stick and stirred at the coals, heaping them against it so it would light faster. As he ran the stick one last time through the ashes and coals, he was surprised to feel it catch on something, and hear a faint metallic tink.

He poked carefully at the spot again, and felt the tip of the stick encounter something solid. Might be nothing more then a rock in the ground, though this waste of muck and reeds and water seemed singularly lacking on stones, apart from the ever-present bits of ruins scattered here and there.

He scraped the ash and underlying dirt to the side, and raised his eyebrows as he found he'd uncovered a small metal lockbox. He glanced at his companions - all three still sleeping soundly – then carefully lifted the box out of the packed soil surrounding took only a moment's work to force open the cheap lock holding it closed. Not much inside – a bit of paper, and a gem. Dark green – an emerald. He grinned, and pocketed the gem, then returned the paper to the box, the box to the hole, and covered it over with dirt and ashes again.

At least he was being well-paid for sitting up in the middle of the night.


	6. Further Into the Wilds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their second day in the wilds was much like their first; a lot of wandering through boggy swampland, trying to stick to the dryer ridges and avoid the worst of the muck, interspersed with the occasional fights against either small bands of darkspawn, or what remained of the more aggressive local wildlife.

Their second day in the wilds was much like their first; a lot of wandering through boggy swampland, trying to stick to the dryer ridges and avoid the worst of the muck, interspersed with the occasional fights against either small bands of darkspawn, or what remained of the more aggressive local wildlife.

Daveth had been pouring over a journal they'd found among the scattered belongings in the camp of the night before, and was excitedly pointing out what he identified, based on descriptions in the journal, as Chasind trail sign, leading somewhere in the swamp. Having no real idea of where the particular ruins they were searching for were, they decided they might as well follow the trail marked by the subtle signs. They worked their way some one grassy hummock to the next, zig-zagging their way slowly across the swamp, sometimes finding themselves recrossing ground that they could have sworn they'd previously seen.

They stopped briefly to consume a cold lunch, then set out again. They hadn't gone far when the noise of a battle reached their ears. They exchanged looks, then quietly slipped up the hillside before them, only to find it wasn't men they heard battling, but more darkspawn – darkspawn, set upon by wolves. Even as they watched, a particularly tall darkspawn – a hurlock – slaughtered the last of the beasts. The darkspawn only then became aware of the human's presence. With roars of rage, they charged up the hill towards the group, the noise attracting the attention of a second, sizable group of darkspawn on a nearby hilltop.

The battle was lengthy, but thankfully the darkspawn's lack of co-ordination once again counted against them; rather then charging the men in a single group, they picked they way down one hill and up the next at their own speeds along their own routes, arriving at the fight in easily killed ones and twos instead of in the potentially overwhelming mass they might have been.

It was only after they were all dead and the men were looking around, Daveth already starting in on skinning the wolves the darkspawn had killed, that they found the body; a missionary from the Chantry, it seemed, based on the documents they found in his possession, one with a predilection for amateur treasure-hunting which had led to his fatal encounter with the darkspawn war band.

"I think it was his camp we stayed at last night," Alistair announced after looking over all the papers they'd found. "Poor man. He writes of a cache of valuables hidden somewhere at his camp that he'd like brought to his wife in Redcliffe. I suppose we can try to find it, if we chance to pass by the camp again on our way out."

Right grunted, thinking of the lockbox and the gem he'd found the night before. "If there's even anything to find," he said acerbically.

"Right, well, we'd better get a move on," Alistair said, stowing away the papers. They set out again, still following the Chasind trail signs.

Daveth squinted up at the darkening sky after a while "We've been heading pretty much south-east," he observed. "I hope we don't go so far south we run into the horde."

Right glanced at Jory, who'd been unusually quiet all day. The man's face was set in a fierce grimace, but his eyes were unusually wide, darting nervously around at every stray sound or movement. "Look there," he exclaimed, slowing, pointing at the way ahead.

Another random stretch of ruined wall, but with clear signs of darkspawn presence about; human bodies hanging from the arches, bearing clear sign of the torment they'd suffered before they'd died, bodies and stones dyed ruddy colours by the lowering sun and the spattered blood. Enough to turn a man's stomach. Even Alistair looked pale as they looked up at the hanging bodies. "Poor slobs," he said softly. "That just seems so... excessive."

They moved on, cautiously, not liking the growing gloom but liking even less the idea of stopping in an area that was clearly infested by darkspawn. After a short walk they rounded a wall of thorny bushes and spoted a rude wooden bridge ahead of them, little more then a rough platform of peeled logs laid down across a narrow stream. A tall, dark form stood motionless on the bridge; another hurlock. It spotted their approach, bellowed. More dark forms came running from the dimness behind it. They hurriedly fell into their usual positions, Alistair and Ser Jory stepping forward to engage the attention of the darkspawn, Daveth dropping back a few paces to have proper room for use of his bow, Right fading off to one side, ready to step in and pick his targets once the darkspawn were sufficiently distracted by Alistair and Jory.

A rustle in the bushes at his back were his only warning of a flanking attack by genlocks. "Ware, flankers!" he shouted, diving away from the bushes just in time to avoid a dagger plunging for his back. Alistair cursed, leaving the initial mass of darkspawn to Jory as he hurried over to engage the additional force.

They battled fiercely, killing the darkspawn on one side of the bridge, then charging across it in the face f a barrage of arrows to take on the darkspawn on the other side. More swarmed up from a camp off to one side. They battle raged for at least a half an hour before the last darkspawn fell to the ground, one of Daveth's arrows jutting out from its eye.

It was almost full dark now, the only light that from some crackling fires the darkspawn had already lit before the arrival of the men. Alistair looked around tiredly. "Well, this should be safe enough now," he announced. "We'll camp here tonight."

The four moved away from the carnage at the bridge, down into the hollow to one side where that last rush of reinforcements had come from. A fire flickered low in a stone ring at the centre of the little dell, some logs pulled close around. Alistair and Ser Jory dropped to the ground by the fire, wincing. That long of a fight took a lot out of the two. Daveth and Right, both much less tired by the lengthy melee, set about putting the camp to right, Daveth heading off in search of reasonably clean water while Right started putting the ingredients for stew together in their one cook pot. He put it aside when he was done – it needed the addition of water before it could go on the fire – then started criss-crossing the little dell, gathering up deadwood to feed the fire. He was investigating the hollow end of one of the logs near the fire, with a mind to breaking off some of the wood to burn, when he frowned. "Isn't this another trail sign?" he asked, pointing at an arrangement of rocks on the ground.

Alistair rose and walked over, then grinned. "Not just any trail sign, Right – that's the one that means a cache. Come on, let's look around, there could be something valuable around here."

That made Right want to kick himself for having brought the sign to the attention of the others. He hid his disappointment and joined Alistair and Jory in the search.

By the time Daveth returned, a leather bucket of water in hand, they'd located the skin-wrapped bundle crammed well up in the hollow of the fallen tree. Too far for any of them to reach; in the end Daveth unstrung his bow, and used the stave to reach in and drag the bundle within reach.

They peeled back the skins protecting the bulky bundle, and found an assortment of items within; a huge maul, a horned helmet, a slender bow, and a rolled up bundle of something leather.

Alistair picked up the horned helmet, and set it on his head. "I don't know, do you think it's _me_?" he asked, grinning broadly.

Daveth was already checking over the bow they'd found, a grin spreading across his face. " _Nice_ bow," he said enthusiastically. "Better then mine, and mine is the best I could stea... err, buy."

"All yours, then" Alistair said generously.

Jory was looking over the maul, giving it an experimental swing or two. He wrinkled his nose, shrugged, dropped the heavy weapon back to the ground. "I think I prefer my sword," he said firmly. "I like weapons to have an edge to them. Wielding this would make me feel like I was back in my father's smithy."

Right, meanwhile, was undoing the ties holding the bundle of leather together, then rolling it out. Armour, boots, and gloves, all of supple leather, soft as butter and black as night, set off with gleaming steel studs and buckles.

"Oh, _nice_ ," Daveth breathed, reaching out and reverently fingering the leather. "Makes me wish I was half the size I was," he said enviously.

It was only then that Right noticed how small the armour was; none of the other three had a hope of fitting into it, even assuming either Alistair or Jory were willing to give up the protection of their heavier mail for it. A wide grin spread across his face. "I think I'm starting to like these Wilds," he said, already reaching to undo the buckles of his old set of leathers.

* * *

 **A/N: I run with the Shadow Warden armour set available. Right had a level up when they found the cache, which co-incidentally gave him the last of the strength he needed to be able to actually equip the set; I figure this was a Games Gods Hath Spoken moment as to just where his snazzy armour came from :)**


	7. Right Choices Witch of the Wilds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They set off again the next morning, still eastwards, though now more north then south, that being the only direction in which it was possible to progress without backtracking.

They set off again the next morning, still eastwards, though now more north then south, that being the only direction in which it was possible to progress without backtracking.

In mid-morning they spotted what had to be their destination; a tumble of ruins on the top of one of the tallest hills they'd yet encountered in the swamp. It may once have been a tower, but little beyond the base of it was left, the upper portion having fallen ages ago, lying in a smashed tumble of overgrown masonry down one side of the hill.

"Let us hope the treaties aren't somewhere under all of _that_ ," Alistair said, nodding at the mess. Right grunted.

"Too right," Daveth agreed.

As they climbed the hill, they spotted movement in the ruins. "More darkspawn," Alistair said grimly, drawing his sword.

The fight was vicious, but ended as all the others had; with them victorious, and the darkspawn slaughtered. They entered the ruins, and looked around. Not much was left, anything organic having rotted away long ago, just bare stone and piles of windblown debris.

It was Right who spotted the remains of a smashed metal-sheathed chest half-buried under the debris of a partially fallen wall. "Is this what we were looking for?" he asked, going to one knee and peering into the interior. Empty, save for a few wind-blown leaves and a sprinkling of dust.

A female voice sounded from nearby, causing all four men to start. Looking around, they spotted a woman walking slowly down a ramp from a higher portion of the ruins. "Well, well, what have we here? Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones have been long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn filled wilds of mine in search of... easy prey?" she asked.

Right glanced at the others. Alistair was staring suspiciously at the woman, Jory was looking even more pop-eyed then usual – either from fear or because of the woman's barely concealing clothing – and even Daveth's normal aplomb had vanished, as he nervously watched the woman circle the group of them, a fine sweat breaking out on his brow.

"What say you, hmm?" she prompted, coming to a stop. She ran her eyes over them, a faintly contemptuous look on her face, eyes lingering on Alistair for a moment before settling on Right. "Scavenger or intruder?"she asked him.

"Where did you come from? Stay back!" Right said warningly, hands on the hilts of his weapons.

She laughed. "Do I appear a stalking predator ready to leap upon her find? There is no need to fear me. I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?' - And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer her," Alistair said firmly. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

"You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, swooping is _bad_ ," Alistair muttered uneasily.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She'll turn us into toads!" Daveth squawked, looking seriously shaken. Right was surprised; he'd never seen Daveth scared before, not even in the worst of the fights against the darkspawn. What was a Witch of the Wilds, that her just standing there seemed to be enough to scare him witless?

"Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" she asked contemptuously, then looked at Right again. "You there, dwarf. You have nothing to fear from any witch. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

"Forget it! You first," Right growled.

"Very well, preserve your mystery if you desire. You may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?' You stole them, didn't you? You're... some kind of... sneaky... witch-thief!" Alistair sputtered, turning pink with anger.

"How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?" Morrigan asked.

"Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them," Alistair said, drawing himself upright and giving her a threatening look.

"I will not, for 'twas not _I_ who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened," she said dismissively, turning her back and walking a few steps away.

"Then who removed them?" Right demanded.

She turned back, looked Right over, then shrugged. "'Twas my mother, in fact."

Right stared at her. "Is this a joke?" he asked suspiciously.

"If so, it seems the truthful rather than funny sort, no?" she said, and smiled. "If you wish, I will take you to my mother. 'Tis not far from here, and you may ask her for your papers, if you like."

"We _should_ get those treaties, but I dislike this... Morrigan's sudden appearance. It's too convenient." Alistair said in an undertone.

Right frowned. Alistair clearly didn't trust the woman, Jory and Daveth were frightened by her – and all three of them seemed to be leaving the choice up to him. He just wanted to get this over with and get out of these sodding swamps. "I say we go with her," he announced.

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch!" Daveth exclaimed fearfully.

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Ser Jory muttered.

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said, turned, and walked away.

* * *

It was, as Morrigan had said, not far to her mother's hut, along a twisting convoluted route that was so narrow, overgrown with bushes, weeds or reeds, and awash with a thin coat of water and mud in spots that it barely qualified as a path. Eventually they emerged at a low rise of ground, a small wood and clay building raised up on stilts to one side.

A wrinkled old woman was standing outside the hut, seemingly waiting for them, as if she'd expected their arrival. Right suspected the windows in the upper portions of the building, which would have a fine view of anyone approaching long before they reached the clearing, had more to do with her presence out here than any less rational explanation, though by Daveth's fearful mutters, he believed otherwise.

The woman turned out to speak in even less direct ways then her daughter did, though thankfully with less flowery language as well. Right couldn't decide if she was purposefully trying to tease and confuse them, or if she was simply suffering from some form of dementia, like his own mother on her bad days. He remained silent, listening to the edged banter between her and his companions, until she abruptly turned to him.

"And what of you? Does your dwarven mind give you a different viewpoint? What do you believe?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "I'm not sure what to believe," he said stolidly.

"A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies. Be always aware... or is it oblivious? I can never remember." she chortled.

She cackled on for a while, until finally Morrigan stepped forward and cut her off. "They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother."

"True, they came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

"You...! Oh. You protected them?" Alistair exclaimed, sounding genuinely surprised.

"And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!" the old woman said imperiously, producing a bundle of documents and holding them out.

"I'm sure they'll be eager to act on your advice," Right said dryly as he accepted them from her hand, then passed them over to an anxious-looking Alistair, who immediately started checking them over for signs of damage.

"Well, I cannot be responsible for their doubts. I would go mad! Or am I already?" she said, and laughed, then made a shooing motion at them. "Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!"

"I will show you out of the woods. Follow me," Morrigan said dryly, and led them away again.

She spoke little, other then warnings of dangers along their path. It was as convoluted a route as the path that she'd led them along to reach her mother's hut, but for all its twists and turns must have been a considerable shortcut. Almost three days it had taken them to get into the depths of the swamp, but by late afternoon she'd brought them back to the trail leading back up into the mountains, back to the ruins of Ostagar. She left them there, without a word of farewell, vanishing silently back into the swamp.

"Strange woman," Alistair observed, before the four began the long hike uphill.

It was late evening when they reached the camp again. They reported to Duncan first of all, who was very pleased to see them back at last. He announced that they'd have the joining later that same night, and dismissed them to have a brief rest beforehand.

Right swung by the Mabari pens first to see the kennel master. The flower the man had wanted had turned out to be relatively prolific, and he'd packed away a sample of it on the very first day out. Dropping his pack at the man's feet, he removed a cloth bundle and unfolded it, revealing several blooms, only slightly wilted by their sojourn in the depths of his pack. "Is this the flower you're looking for?" he asked, offering it to the man.

"Let me see... yes, that's exactly it, wonderful! Give me a moment and I'll make this into an ointment. Thank you!" the man exclaimed.

Right snorted. "I'd prefer thanks in the form of payment," he growled.

"Payment? Isn't it worth something to save a valiant hound's life?"

"Only to the dog," Right said firmly, and made as if to refold the cloth.

"I see. I have... fifty silver? That's my own purse, and I've nothing more. I hope it will suffice?" he said anxiously.

Right nodded, and handed over the flowers in exchange for the coins.

His next stop was the quartermaster, where he turned most of the things he'd salvaged or scavenged in the wild – wolf pelts, some of the herbs Duncan had taught him were useful, some of the better bits of weaponry or armour from the darkspawn they'd killed, the emerald, and so forth – into much less bulky coin. Some of which he then invested in the ingredients and recipes for poison making; he'd been delighted by the effect that deathroot poison the man had given him had on the darkspawn. The cost of the ingredients wasn't too bad, but the recipes – ouch! That must be where the man had his biggest markup. No wonder he'd been willing to give away free samples.

That taken care of, he sought out food, then returned to Duncan's fire and curled up for a brief nap, wondering how long the Joining ceremony later would be – and what it would involve.


	8. The Joining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, Daveth and Ser Jory followed Alistair quietly through the darkened camp, to an area that had been put aside for the Grey Wardens' use in the north end of the ruins. The same place where he'd first encountered Alistair, Right realized as they climbed a sloping ramp to the spot prepared for the Joining ritual.

Right, Daveth and Ser Jory followed Alistair quietly through the darkened camp, to an area that had been put aside for the Grey Wardens' use in the north end of the ruins. The same place where he'd first encountered Alistair, Right realized as they climbed a sloping ramp to the spot prepared for the Joining ritual.

He paused on the ramp. It was finally sinking in – after tonight, he'd be a Grey Warden. One of the legendary fighters against the darkspawn horde. He'd accepted Duncan's offer of a place in their ranks because the other choice had been an immediate, horrible death. After their journey into the Wilds, he wondered if he'd merely exchanged it for a later, horrible death. Still... better later then now. And this was still better then being an enforcer for Beraht had ever been, a job which had, as he's seen, also had a high likelihood of an eventual horrible death.

One horrible death or another – at least he was alive now. And he'd do his best to see he remained so.

He walked the last bit up the ramp, walking over to join the others. Alistair looked sombre, more serious then Right could recall noticing before. Daveth had recovered his usual aplomb since they'd left that Morrigan behind, and Ser Jory seemed to have regained some of his nerve, though he was still clearly nervous about the coming ritual.

"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," he muttered as Right joined them.

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth asked, frowning in disapproval.

"Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?" Jory demanded, trying to look affronted but mainly looking flustered.

"Maybe it's tradition. Maybe they're just trying to annoy you," Daveth said.

Right was tired of their bickering; it had been pretty much non-stop since the swamp, starting when they'd encountered that wounded soldier, and only getting worse since. Daveth clearly didn't think much of Jory, and Jory didn't like having some street rat judge his actions. Especially when his actions were in conflict with his idea of himself.

"Stop yammering! You're giving me a headache," he growled at the paid of them.

The two ignored him, and continued their bickering. He felt his irritation with the pair rising. They fought well together, but when they didn't have an enemy in front of them, they just fought. "Will you both shut up?" he said, louder this time.

"Yeah, ser knight, try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts," Daveth sneered.

It might have come to blows after that – Jory was clearly incensed at Daveth's attitude – but they heard the scuff of an approaching footstep and turned to see Duncan coming up the ramp, a heavy silver and amethyst goblet cradled in both hands. He gazed calmly around at all of them, a mild look in his eyes, as he carried the goblet over to a nearby stone table and set it down.

"At last we come to the Joining," he said quietly. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Jory paled. "We're... going to drink the blood of those... those creatures?"

Duncan nodded. "As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. _This_ is the source of our power and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon," Alistair hurriedly explained.

"Those who survive?" Right asked, the sinister phrase in Alistair's words leaping out at him.

"Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay. We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

Alistair stepped forward, standing almost at attention, head held high and shoulders back, looking vry solemn as he carefully spoke the words from memory. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

While he spoke, Duncan retried the goblet. As Alistair finished, Duncan stepped forward, holding it out towards Daveth.

"Daveth, step forward," he said.

Daveth accepted the goblet, slowly raising it up. He barely hesitated, then took a sip of the thick, noxious liquid within. Duncan removed the cup from his hands, stepped back, waiting.

For a moment nothing happened. Then Daveth gasped, grasped at his head, cried out in pain, before dropping to the ground in convulsions. The end came quickly, but it was not a merciful one. Right swallowed bile as he stared down at the corpse of the man who had been his comrade-in-arms for the last three days, who had started to become a friend.

"Maker's breath!" Jory exclaimed, falling back a step, eyes wide, drawing his sword in his fear.

"I am sorry, Daveth," Duncan said quietly, looking down at the motionless corpse. He raised the goblet again, held it out towards Ser Jory. "Step forward, Jory."

Jory looked panicked. He babbled of his pregnant wife, backing away. When Duncan pressed him, he refused the cup again. A hard look crossed Duncan's face as he put aside the goblet, drew his own dagger, and advanced on Jory. It was over in moments, Jory sprawled lifeless on the ground.

Right didn't know which death had been worse; seeing Daveth poisoned by the darkspawn blood, or Jory cut down for refusing to even try it.

Duncan had picked up the goblet again. He looked old and tired as he held it out a third time. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," he said sternly.

Right drew a deep breath. One horrible death or another, he reminded himself, forcing himself to reach out and grasp the cup, lift it to his lips, and drink. The contents were vile, with a stink like rotting corpses, the taste even worse. He gagged, barely keeping the viscous fluid down. A burning sensation rushed through his veins. He choked, staggered, fell to his knees, screamed from the pain of the taint invading his body.

"From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden," he heard Duncan intoning, before be blacked out.

* * *

He dreamed, of what he couldn't clearly remember afterwards. Something terrible. A roar of rage, a lust for destruction, an overwhelming urge to kill.

When he woke, it was to find himself lying on his back, still at the ritual area, Duncan and Alistair leaning anxiously over him. A quick glance around showed that the two bodies had already been removed, only a small damp spot on the stones marking where Ser Jory had fallen. By the position of the moon, some hours had passed since the ritual.

"It is finished. Welcome," Duncan said, as he and Alistair helped Right back onto his feet.

"Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was... horrible. I'm glad at least one of you made it through," Alistair said sadly.

"How do you feel?" Duncan asked.

"Nothing you said prepared me for that," Right replied hoarsely.

"Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden," Duncan said.

They talked a bit longer, Alistair asking if he'd dreamed. Right shied away from the vague memory of the nightmare he'd woken from, preferring not to remember it any clearer then he did, electing not to speak of it.

Duncan explained that they hadn't much time left; the horde had been spotted, and would be here by evening of the next day. He bid Right to go rest for now, and ordered him to join him in attending the King's council of war first thing the next morning.

Right was surprised to find himself being invited to be present at any such thing. He was the newest addition to the forces gathered here, a lowly Dust Town criminal only newly raised to the rank of Grey Warden – why did they want _him_ to attend a war council! Still, Duncan was his commander now; if Duncan told him to be there, he'd better be there.

He lay down on a bedroll by Duncan's fire, chilled by more then the night air as he thought over the evening's events.


	9. Tower of Ishal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attending the King's war council turned out to be a lengthy and tedious business. Mainly Right just stood quietly off to one side near Duncan, while King Cailan and his General, Teryn Loghain Mac Tir, argued about strategy for the coming battle.

Attending the King's war council turned out to be a lengthy and tedious business. Mainly Right just stood quietly off to one side near Duncan, while King Cailan and his General, Teryn Loghain Mac Tir, argued about strategy for the coming battle.

A lot of their arguments went over his head, but one thing Loghain said that Right certainly agreed with; the front lines was no place for the King to be, Grey Wardens by his side or no Grey Wardens by his side. He could just imagine the reaction of someone like Beraht to such a foolish notion; keeping the leader safe is what soldiers were _for_ , after all. The place for the people who actually ran things was safely in the rear, where they were well protected.

He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to another. All this standing and listening to talk was _boring_. If they had to have another Grey Warden here with Duncan, why couldn't it have been someone else? Alistair, for example.

It was late afternoon before King Cailan finally got around to announcing why he'd wanted Right to attend; he was giving Right and Alistair the oh-so-enviable task of making sure that the beacon to signal a flanking attack by Loghain's men would be lit. They weren't even being given sole responsibility for it; they were being sent to backup the troops who'd already been given the job and were already waiting at the top of the Tower to do it.

Right scowled. A weeks-long journey from Orzammar, days spent in the Wilds, the Joining... all so that he could be _backup_! By the Ancestors, these humans were crazy!

When informed of their task, Alistair didn't seem any more thrilled about it then he did. He'd expected to be in the battle, right alongside Duncan, not relegated to the rear in some secondary role that could well see the two of them doing nothing more exciting then standing around watching other men light a fire. Worse, Duncan had forbid them to even join the battle once it was lit. They were being locked out of the fighting entirely.

Neither of them were happy about that. For all that Right liked his skin just where it was, he'd been looking forward to taking part in the battle. Him, Right of Dust Town, fighting as a Grey Warden with the King of Ferelden! It would have been something to brag about, later.

* * *

Clouds had been rolling in all day; as the daylight began to fade towards evening, it was obvious a thunderstorm was rolling in. Right shivered; he was still finding it hard to get used to surface weather, and this was only the third thunderstorm he'd seen. The flashes of lightning and echoing peals of thunder as it swept in over the mountains had him jittery and nervous, feeling like he'd jump out of his skin with each one.

From a high vantage point they glimpsed the army waiting far below in the pass, the massed darkspawn emerging from the forested slopes, beginning their charge. The sky blackened with a storm of arrows, echoed by the clouds cutting loose with a torrential downpour of rain, obscuring their view of the battle.

"Right," Alistair said, looking across the bridge towards the Tower of Ishal, seen only as a vaguely glimpsed darkness rising through the rain-swept night, except when flashes of lightning illuminated its surface and briefly made it stand out in stark relief. "We've got to get to the Tower," he said firmly.

Right nodded, and the two set off across the rain-slick bridge at a steady run. Even over the sounds of the storm they could hear the roar of the battle begun in the pass far below. Screams sounded as catapults in the valley below hurled great flaming boulders up to crash into the bridge, seeking to bring it down on the heads of the army, and to take out the ballistas along it's span, as well as the soldiers manning them.

Archers spaced along the railing cursed, their bows quickly becoming useless in the wet of the storm. Right and Alistair ducked and dodged, forcing themselves to ignore the screams of the men injured by hits, finally making it across the span to the far side. They hurried over to the gate leading to the tower.

As they approached, a mage and a guard came pelting down the ramp, coming to an abrupt stop as they saw the two Grey Wardens.

"Help me, they're everywhere!" the tower guard gasped. "You – you're Grey Wardens, aren't you? The Tower! It's been taken!"

"What are you talking about, man? Taken how?" Alistair demanded.

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers, they're everywhere – most of our men are dead," the guard explained, sounding more then a little panicky.

"Then we have to get to the beacon, and light it ourselves!" Alistair exclaimed.

Right nodded. It looked like their nice safe well-behind-the-lines backup role had just changed for the worse; if that beacon wasn't lit on time, the whole battle plan would fall apart. They had perhaps an hour at most to get up there, and the Ancestor's alone knew how many darkspawn between them and the tower top.

Alistair quickly ordered the mage and guard to accompany them, and the four headed towards the tower. They met resistance immediately, groups of darkspawn that had found their way out of the Tower. Grimly they set about killing them. Thankfully, the darkspawn didn't seem to be any more organized then they had been out in the Wilds; for all that they appeared to be following a well-laid plan, the individual darkspawn themselves seemed to be almost abysmally stupid and uncoordinated, again relying more on numbers and surprise then anything else to achieve their goals. Which was fine by Right; stupid was _good_ in enemies.

What followed felt like the longest night of Right's life. He'd thought the running battle he and Leske had fought to escape from Beraht's cells had been a long, hard fight; this was worse, for all that it was shorter. He gave thanks for the weeks of steady travel that had hardened him up, the recent days of fighting in the swamp that had mde him an Alistair work together as a team; the Right in that cell couldn't have managed what he and Alistair pulled off this night.

Floor by floor they worked their way up through the tower, slaughtering darkspawn in ones and twos and entire droves. On one of the topmost floors they came across some caged Mabari that the darkspawn hadn't gotten around to killing yet; they freed the dogs, and with their help cleared the remainder of the floor.

Finally, they climbed the final staircase, entered the windowed space at the top where the bonfire pyre lay waiting, a huge pile of oil-soaked wood.

With an ogre between them and it, hungrily chewing on the body of one of the soldiers who'd originally been posted here to light the beacon.

"Maker!" Alistair exclaimed, appalled.

Right nodded his head in silent agreement with the sentiment, if not the word used to express it.

The two men charged.

It was a vicious fight, worse then any that had gone before. The creature was brutally strong, and surprising fast for all its size. Early on in the fight, it scooped up the mage, smashing its fist repeatedly into him, then tossed the broken body aside. One less person to fight it.

The tower guard kept his distance, face pale, and sent arrow after arrow winging its way, damaging it significantly but failing to find a vital spot.

Alistair bellowed and roared, knocked off his feet again and again by the massive brute, only to shakily rise and resume fighting. Right stayed behind the thing as much as he could, whittling away at it with sword and dagger.

Finally, it crashed to the stones, blood sheeting across the floor as it died.

"The beacon is over here. We've surely missed the signal – let's light it before it's too late," Alistair called, already striding over towards the waiting pile of wood.

Right nodded tiredly and followed him, cleaning and sheathing his weapons as he moved. He snagged a burning stick out of the scattered remains of what much have been the soldiers' watchfire, and used it to light the beacon.

"Let's hope we're in time," Alistair said grimly as they stepped back, watching the oiled wood burst explosively into flame.

A scream behind them made them spin around in time to see the tower guard falling to the floor, his throat and chest pierced by arrows, a swarm of darkspawn pouring through the doorway from the lower floors.

Right barely had time to register the bows already pointing his way when he was slammed backwards to the floor. He stared dumbly at the arrows rising from his chest, then felt himself sinking into darkness.

He felt grouchy about that. He was getting damned tired of blacking out.


	10. Back In The Wilds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right winced, then opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed of some kind, a worn sheet pulled up over him. Plaster-daubed walls rose to a rough wooden roof not far overhead, lit by the flickering light of a fire nearby. He frowned; the place didn't look in the least familiar.

Right winced, then opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed of some kind, a worn sheet pulled up over him. Plaster-daubed walls rose to a rough wooden roof not far overhead, lit by the flickering light of a fire nearby. He frowned; the place didn't look in the least familiar.

"Ah, your eyes finally open; Mother shall be pleased," an all-too familiar female voice said from somewhere nearby.

The witch! Startled, Right sat up, looked around. Morrigan stood over by the fire, watching him him a curious expression on her face. Right abruptly realized he was nearly naked, dressed only in his smalls. He felt his ears heating, and had to suppress a sudden desire to pull the sheet back over himself and hide from her view.

"Err... yes. Where am I?" he asked.

"Back in the Wilds, of course. I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten, and I have just bandaged your wounds," she said, and slowly paced toward the bed to stand uncomfortably close to him, running her eyes over him in a way that made him feel deeply uncomfortable. "You are welcome, by the way," she said pointedly after he didn't respond. She turned and stepped away again, looked back at him. "How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother's rescue?"

"I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn..." he said, trailing off as his last memories before waking here returned in a rush; darkspawn rushing into the room, the guard falling dead, the impact that drove him to the stone, seeing arrows standing out from his own chest, the cries of the darkspawn as they rushed forward...

"Mother managed to save you and your friend, though 'twas a close call. What is important is that you both live. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend... he is not taking it well."

Friend? Oh, she must mean... "My friend? You mean Alistair?" he asked cautiously.

"The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

Right nodded, his hands running over his torso, seeking any sign of the arrows that by any rights should have killed him, and finding nothing worse then some vague soreness, like an old bruise. "Were my injuries severe?" he asked, uneasily.

"Yes, but I expect you shall be fine. The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal."

"I will go, then," he said abruptly, wanting to get out from under the too-bold gaze of her strange yellow eyes.

"I will stay and make something to eat," she said, and paced back over to the fire.

Right looked around, and was relieved to spot his armour, weapons, and backpack piled nearby on the floor. He rose and dressed quickly, wishing the witch would keep her eyes turned away, then hurried out of the hut.

He wondered which thought was worse; that _she_ was the one who had stripped him of his clothes, or that her old hag of a mother had.

* * *

He emerged from the hut to find it was late evening. Alistair was standing nearby, looking out over the swamps, the old woman watching him silently. She saw Right emerge from her hut, and gave him an enigmatic smile before turning to Alistair.

"See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

Alistair spun around, a look of relief crossing his face at the sight of Right.

"You... you're alive! I thought you were dead for sure," he exclaimed.

"Afraid you were going to be left alone?" Right asked.

Alistair's face fell. "Duncan's dead. The Grey Wardens, even the king... They're all dead. This doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," she said acerbically.

"I didn't mean... but what do we call you? You never told us your name." Alistair pointed out.

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

The name seemed to mean something to Alistair, a startled, half-fearful expression crossed his face. " _The_ Flemeth from the legends? Daveth was right-you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"

"And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

"I suppose we should thank you," Right said, wondering as he did why she'd helped them.

"If you know what is good for you, I suppose you should!"

"Is there some way we can repay you?" he asked guardedly. Surely she must have some reason for having saved their lives, after all. Something she wanted out of them. People didn't just help other people for no reason at all, not in his experience anyway.

She laughed. "All that I wish you to do is what you are meant to do. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?" she said, looking back and forth at the two Grey Wardens.

Right expected Alistair to answer her, but he seemed lost in thought, barely paying attention to the conversation. He ended up having to respond to and question the woman himself, constantly exasperated by her enigmatic evasions and hints, Alistair only occasionally speaking up. The death of Duncan and the other Grey Wardens, the other overwhelming losses at Ostagar – the King, and portion of the army with him, Loghain's betrayal – Alistair seemed to be taking it all very hard.

He only regained a little animation after Flemeth pointed out that they could use the recovered treaties to recruit a new army to combat the darkspawn. The thought of having a way to fulfil his duty as a Grey Warden seemed to restore Alistair to his normal self at least somewhat.

Morrigan emerged from the hut. "The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve - or none?" she asked, giving the two men a disdainful look.

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them," she said.

Alistair and Morrigan were both openly shocked by her announcement.

"What makes you think we want her?" Right asked suspiciously. "Was this your idea all along?"

Alistair chimed in, protesting the addition of the girl to their party. He and Flemeth argued it back and forth for some while.

"We don't need her help," Right finally interjected, not liking the idea of travelling with the acerbic young witch in the least.

Flemeth shrugged. "Let her guide you out of the Wilds. If you truly do not desire her help after that, simply tell her so."

Right remembered how quickly she'd led them back to Ostagar after their previous encounter with her and her mother, and had to admit that she'd at least be useful as a guide. He certainly didn't have any idea of where to go from here, especially of how to get back to the north, past Ostagar, without encountering the darkspawn that still undoubtedly swarmed around the area.

An uncomfortable silence descended as she returned to the hut to pack a few belongings before they left. Thankfully she was quick about it, re-emerging only a few minutes later.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far and you will find much you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours."

"I think we should just get underway," Right said.

She said a few parting words to her mother, then the three of them set out, Alistair and Right trailing behind the witch as she confidently strode away from her mother's hut, leading them out into the swamp.


	11. To Lothering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N: Finally caught up to where Right currently is in-game, so my update speed is likely going to drop a wee tad now, as I'll be alternating playing and writing. Dratted dwarf – he would convince me to write a story about him and Zevran, I could have finished his play-through in the time it's taken me just to get him as far as Lothering in-story... and I'd still be playing catch-up if I hadn't decided to revert him to an earlier save since he's suggested some story-line changes to what I'd actually played through so far. _*Grins*_**

**A/N: Finally caught up to where Right currently is in-game, so my update speed is likely going to drop a wee tad now, as I'll be alternating playing and writing. Dratted dwarf – he would convince me to write a story about him and Zevran, I could have finished his play-through in the time it's taken me just to get him as far as Lothering in-story... and I'd still be playing catch-up if I hadn't decided to revert him to an earlier save since he's suggested some story-line changes to what I'd actually played through so far. _*Grins*_**

* * *

The journey north took days. They'd had to travel through the mountains well to the east of Ostagar to avoid the worst of the darkspawn war bands roving out from the fallen fortress, before working their way back north-west to the Imperial Highway running north to Lothering.

Alistair's initial enthusiasm for the planned journey to recruit aid using the treaties didn't last long, as he quickly sunk into a deep depression over the events at Ostagar. He was second guessing everything; whether his presence on the battlefield might have made a difference, or whether, if they'd managed to light the beacon earlier, Loghain would have stayed the field instead of quitting it. The confident young Grey Warden who'd led three raw recruits so effectively in the swamps was gone, replaced by a withdrawn, hesitant man who left all the decision-making up to Right.

Morrigan's presence didn't help. She was clearly bitterly resentful at being sent off with the pair of them by her mother, and didn't hesitate to use her acerbic tongue on either of them. Right mainly ignored her – he'd heard worse in his years in Dust Town – but her words made Alistair retreat even further into himself. The two clearly disliked and distrusted each other from the start, which also didn't help to make their journey together any more comfortable.

Her presence unsettled Right, too, though for different reasons. Her sharp words and prickly manner might not bother him, but the way she looked at the two of them... he didn't like it. When it didn't put him in mind of a noble looking down his nose at anyone of lesser caste, it was uncomfortably reminiscent of a starving duster confronted with a roasted nug. As excellent as she might be as a guide, he didn't relish the thought of spending any more time with her then was absolutely necessary. Her barely-clad state was also disturbing in an entirely different way. Which would have been understandable to him if she was a nubile young dwarf, but she was a _human_. And not even a particularly nice or friendly human. His dreams perturbed him, and made him feel even more uneasy in her presence.

* * *

She did, at least, prove to be useful in a fight. They'd been working their way back to the Imperial Highway, following a narrow dirt road down from the mountains, when they had their first encounter with a roving war band of darkspawn. Thankfully they had warning of its approach; as they walked along the road, enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon and not paying as much attention to their surroundings as they likely should have, they'd caught a glimpse of movement ahead.

They stopped, and were surprised to realize it was a white-coated mabari hound, charging along the road towards them, tongue hanging from its mouth. It looked just like the hound Right had helped with back at Ostagar. It barrelled up to them, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Right, stubby tail wagging as it made a pleased whining sound, before spinning around to face back the way it had come. It crouched, and growled warningly.

A war band of darkspawn trotted into sight, coming to a halt as they spotted the small group. A tall hurlock in the middle of the group laughed, and made a contemptuous throat-cutting gesture at them, then bellowed, charging toward them, flanked by the rest.

Alistair was the immediate focus of the melee, the darkspawn clearly seeing the tall, armour-clad human as the most obviously dangerous of the trio. Morrigan dropped back, and began casting spells, while Right and the dog circled around and contributed their share to the mayhem. Within minutes they'd killed the entire war band.

The dog came over to Right, tail wagging, looking pleased with himself and barking happily.

"I think this is the mabari I helped cure back at Ostagar." he said, looking the dog over for any sign of injury.

"Does this mean we're going to have this mangy beast following us about now? Wonderful," Morrigan said disapprovingly.

"He must remember you helping him back at Ostagar. You're imprinted. Lucky you," Alistair said.

"But I don't want a dog. Too much responsibility!" Right exclaimed, looking at the huge dog worriedly, thinking about how much food an animal that big must take. Besides, he didn't know anything about looking after dogs.

"He's a warhound. He can look after himself, I imagine." Alistair pointed out.

The dog looked at Right, ears dropping and tail going still.

"I suppose he might be handy," Right said reluctantly. The mabari gave a happy bark and moved closer, tail wagging furiously. He found himself reaching out and scratching it behind the ears, fighting back a smile as its mouth opened in a huge dog-y grin and its tail started wagging so hard that its entire hindquarters were swaying from side to side. He couldn't remember _anything_ ever being that pleased to see him before. It was... an odd feeling.

"What are you going to call him?" Alistair asked. "He needs a name."

Right blinked. Name him? He looked at the dog. He'd never had to give anything a name before. He looked the beast over. It was white as fine marble, with a powerfully muscled body and a massive head, its main weapons clearly its weight and the mouthful of nastily sharp teeth, though he was pretty sure the stubby claws on its feet could also do significant surface damage. It smelled like it had been rolling around in well-ripened corpses; given the likely state of the battlefield this many days after the fall of Ostagar, it may well have been.

"Stench," he said decisively.

" _Stench_? You're naming a _mabari hound S_ tench!"Alistair asked disbelievingly.

"Why not?" Right asked. "It describes him perfectly, doesn't it, boy?" he asked the dog, who barked happily in response.

"That it does," Morrigan said. "May I suggest we move on before any other darkspawn wander by? We still have a long way to go before we'll reach a safe spot to camp for the night."

They continued on, Alistair muttering for a while about Stench's name, though it wasn't long before he sank back into his usual unhappy silence.

* * *

They encountered a few other bands of darkspawn after that, none as large as the first, and easily defeated all of them. Once they reached the Imperial Highway their pace picked up considerably, and they had a long stretch of travel where the only disturbing things they saw were signs of the orderly retreat of Loghain's forces, and the much less orderly signs left behind by the few soldiers who'd escaped the battle itself.

Over a week after leaving Flemeth's hut, they finally reached Lothering. As they approached the junction of the Imperial Highway and the West Road, they spotted a group of men sprawled across the stone surface of the raised highway, apparently manning a rough barrier of damaged carts that blocked their path. One rose to his feet as they approached.

"Wake up, gentlemen! More travellers to attend to. Led by a dwarf, oddly enough," he called, his men slowly rising to join him, falling into a rough line across the road behind him, desultorily checking their weapons and gear as they did so.

"Highwaymen. Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose," Alistair said quietly.

"They are fools to get in our way. I say teach them a lesson," Morrigan hissed.

The man who was leading the group demanded that they pay a toll to continue any further along the highway. Right looked the group over, lip curling in disdain. Poorly outfitted, no discipline, half the men not even paying proper attention to the proceedings... he could just imagine what kind of remarks his old friend Leske would have made about such a slovenly band. And ones with such meagre goals, too. Ten silvers? Not even ten silvers _each_ , but ten silvers for the entire group of them? Amateurs! Beraht would have laughed himself sick at such an inept group – right before having them killed, and his own much more well-trained and ruthless men take over their territory.

"Forget it. I'm not paying," he told them coldly, hands dropping to rest on the hilts of his weapons in clear warning.

The leader was too stupid to back off. Unsurprising, considering he'd been stupid enough to accost such a well-armed group in the first place.

"Well, this is going nowhere. Let's finish this, gents!" he called to his men. They drew weapons, advanced – and started falling very quickly, as Alistair, Right, Stench and Morrigan, well-versed in working together after all their confrontations with darkspawn on the way north, started hewing them down.

In no time at all the only one left standing was the leader of the highwaymen. "All right! We surrender! We-we-we're just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!" he exclaimed, just about peeing himself in his urgency to stop Alistair and Right from cutting him down.

Right shook his head, looking in disgust at the injured and dead lying scattered around. "This shoddy operation is pathetic. _I_ could do better," he said. "Hand over everything you've stolen."

The bandit leader hurriedly emptied his pockets, turning up a little over 100 silvers in coin, and telling them that the less portable things his gang had stolen were in some chests nearby.

Right nodded, then gave the man an evil grin. "Now you die. That's all you deserve," he told him contemptuously, and beheaded him.

He was rather surprise that Alistair didn't protest his action, but then the man had been preying on refuges, which Alistair probably objected to even more then slaying someone out of hand. Morrigan didn't say anything, but the expression on her face spoke volumes about how thoroughly she approved of the deed.

Right took a few minutes to strip any particularly saleable items from the corpses, and check the chests for anything worth keeping. In the process, they found the body of a Templar who hadn't fared as well against the highwaymen as they had. Alistair found a locket and some papers on him that he thought might identify the man, and suggested they should deliver them to the local Chantry.

They continued on their way, and soon reached the outskirts of town.

"Well, there it is – Lothering. Pretty as a painting." Alistair said sardonically.

Right grunted. The place might have been pretty once, but that was before an army of refugees descended on the place. The space between the roadway and the town was filled with a sprawl of tents and rough shelters, muddy and reeking of unwashed bodies and sewage. Some scrawny chickens pecked in the mud, presumably after insects and worms; judging by the half-starved look of many of the refugees, no one was wasting good grain on livestock.

Morrigan, he noticed, was picking at Alistair again. "Leave him alone, Morrigan," he growled.

She didn't drop it, but continued making cutting comments about Alistair's intelligence. Right scowled. She'd been getting on his nerves the entire trip; this was the last straw.

"You are a heartless shrew, you know that?" he said.

"And _you_ are a _fool_. Is there a reason for this sudden insult? Do you wish me to leave?"

"Yes, actually, I want you to go," he told her.

She looked surprised. "Are you sure? If I leave, I can be of no further use to you," she pointed out.

Right snorted. "I'm fine with that. I want you _gone,_ " he told her coldly.

She looked shocked at his answer, then angry. "So be it. May you find your victory on your own," she said in clipped tones, turned, and stalked stiffly off the way they'd came. Right sighed, seriously hoping that would be the last they ever saw of her _or_ her mother. He and Alistair might owe the crazed old bat their lives, but gratitude would only stretch so far.

Alistair looked relieved. "Now what?" he asked.

"Why are you asking me?" Right said.

"Well, _I_ don't know where we should go! I'll leave it up to whatever you decide," Alistair said.

Right pursed his lips, biting back a sharp response. How was he to know any better then Alistair did about where they should go? He'd been out on the surface less then two months; he didn't even know where any of the places named in the treaties _were_ , much less how to get there. Even Orzammar; he vaguely knew it was somewhere far to the north-west of here, with Lake Calenhad somewhere in between, but he'd only been this way once before, and everything looked totally different heading north then it had coming south.

"I'll figure it out as we go," he muttered to himself, and turned away, leading the way down the ramp and into the refugee camp.


	12. Merchants and Murderers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They wandered through the refugee camp, Alistair looking around with a distressed look on his face, while Right pilfered a few small valuables without the man even noticing. Duncan would have noticed right off, he'd bet – noticed and said something. He was startled to realize how much he missed the older man; he'd only been in his company for a few short weeks, but he'd respected him, and even come to like him. And Duncan, he was sure, would have known what they should do, and led the way himself.

They wandered through the refugee camp, Alistair looking around with a distressed look on his face, while Right pilfered a few small valuables without the man even noticing. Duncan would have noticed right off, he'd bet – noticed and said something. He was startled to realize how much he missed the older man; he'd only been in his company for a few short weeks, but he'd respected him, and even come to like him. And Duncan, he was sure, would have known what they should do, and led the way himself.

As they entered Lothering proper, a Templar stopped them and warned them that they should keep moving; there was already too many people in town, and too little food, and it couldn't be long before the darkspawn at Ostagar moved north and overran the town. Right thanked him brusquely, and he and Alistair continued into town.

He looked around. The place was small, divided in halves by a narrow, foul-smelling stream. A chantry stood on this side of the stream, a cluster of small houses and a large building – an inn, perhaps? - on the other. An angry-looking man stood nearby, arguing with a pinch-faced priestess. Right walked closer, wondering what the argument was about.

"Back off! I have the right to charge what I wish!" the man was telling the priestess.

"You profit from their misfortune! I should have the templars give away everything in your carts!" she exclaimed angrily.

"You wouldn't dare! Any of you step too close to my goods, and I'll..." he exclaimed.

"It's so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis. Warms the heart," Alistair interrupted.

The man gave him an annoyed look, then caught sight of Right. "Ho! You there! You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman?"

"Get rid of the 'tiny' part, and I'll consider it," Right told him.

"A-ha! I'm not the only one with some business sense!" the man said, grinning.

A fast bargaining session and exchange of insults later, and Right managed to drive off the pestiferous priestess. The man happily paid him the money, and even offered him a discount on goods. Alistair looked appalled by Right having sided with the merchant, but Right was feeling annoyed enough with Alistair at the moment to not particularly care what he thought. He quickly bargained away most of the saleables from his pack, acquiring some nice portable coin and a few odds and ends in return, including some much-needed supplies for the road.

* * *

At Alistair's insistence they headed over to the Chantry after that, to see about handing over the things they'd found on the dead Templar. They entered and looked around. The place was as crowded with refugees as the outside had been, along with a scattering of Chantry priests brothers and sisters, and several Templars.

Alistair's eye's lit up. "Ser Donall!" he exclaimed, striding over to a man to one side. "Is that you?"

"Alistair? By the Maker, how are you? I... I was certain you were dead!" the knight exclaimed.

The two men quickly exchanged news, both angry about Loghain's precipitous retreat from the field at Ostagar. Alistair was disturbed to learn from his friend that one of the men they'd planned to speak to, Arl Eamon, was deathly ill, his knights scattered about the country on some desperate quest for a holy relict of Andraste that might have the power to save him. He also mentioned that he was waiting on his travelling companion to arrive; Ser Henric, a Templar. They quickly realized it was the man the highwaymen had killed, and Alistair turned over his personnel effects to Ser Donall. The man bade them farewell, then left, heading back to Redcliffe.

Next they stopped to speak to the head of the Templars there, one Ser Bryant by name. He was pleased to learn about the deaths of the highwaymen, but less pleased to learn that the two were Grey Wardens; Loghain had declared all Grey Wardens traitors, claiming the order had killed the King at Ostagar, and placing a bounty on their heads. Grim news; now they had to fear attack by bounty hunters as well as bandits and darkspawn.

Ser Bryant himself didn't believe the rumours, however, and slipped them the key to an equipment cupboard, suggesting they take anything they could use, which Right happily accepted. There wasn't much inside, but he found some nice-looking boots and a couple of other items worth slipping into his pack.

Alistair insisted on going to see the Revered Mother next. Right was uncomfortable about that; he didn't like the idea of getting any more involved with this human religion then was strictly necessary, and would have been just as happy to stay away from the woman. When he naturally refused to tithe to the chantry, she reacted in a deeply displeased manner, and he therefore wasn't surprised when she adamantly refused to give the two Grey Wardens any help.

They emerged back outside, richer by quite a few minor additions to Right's pack; he hadn't hesitated to take advantage of the crowded conditions inside to pilfer from any available pockets.

"We need to find a place to camp for the night," Alistair pointed out.

"Let's try the Inn," Right suggested. "It would be nice to sleep in a real bed for once."

Alistair nodded agreement, and the two headed across the nearby bridge.

* * *

The Inn was packed with townspeople, refugees and soldiers. One of the soldiers put down his drink and took a step towards them as they entered, an unpleasant smile crossing his face. "Well. Look what we have here, men. I think we've just been blessed," he said loudly. The other soldiers quickly abandoned their own drinks and turned to see what he was talking about.

"Uh-oh. Loghain's men. This can't be good," Alistair said in a low tone.

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a dwarf by this very description? And everyone said they hadn't seen one?" one of the soldiers asked.

"It seems we were lied to," said the first soldier, who appeared to be the one in command.

A young woman with short red hair, dressed in a Chantry robe, but with a surprising arsenal of weapons strapped to her back, stepped forward out of a shadowed corner. "Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. This is no doubt simply another poor soul seeking refuge," she said persuasively in a strongly-accented voice.

"Out of our way, Sister. If you insist on protecting a traitor, I've no trouble teaching you a lesson," the Commander told her dismissively, then turned his attention back to Alistair and Right. "Enough talk. Take the Wardens into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way," he ordered his men.

Right and the woman had their weapons out before the man finished speaking, Alistair only a hair slower in drawing his sword. Townspeople and refugees retreated from the sudden fight, crying out in alarm. The four of them made short work of the half-drunk soldiers.

"All right, you've won! We surrender!" the commander called out as Right was drawing back his arm for a final blow. He would have continued and killed the man anyway, but the woman hurriedly stepped between them, ending the fight.

"Good. They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now." she said.

"They aim to butcher us! They deserve no mercy!" Right exclaimed.

"Please! Wait!" the man begged.

"They have surrendered! They were no match for you! Let them be!" the woman exclaimed.

"They were going to kill us," he pointed out grimly.

"But they failed, and I do not wish death on anyone," the woman said.

"But I do," Right said, and slipped past the woman to cut the man's throat before she could protest any further, then finished off the wounded soldiers as well. He wasn't about to leave live enemies behind him.

The woman looked distressed, then pressed her lips together and drew a deep breath through her nose before speaking again. "I apologize for interfering, but I couldn't just sit by and not help."

"Who are you, anyhow?" Right asked.

"Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was."

"And is there something you wanted from me?"

"Those men said you're a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do? I know after what happened, you'll need all the help you can get. That's why I'm coming along."

"I'm sorry, Sister, but you are _very_ mistaken," Right corrected her.

"Ah, I thought you might say that, but you see, the Maker wants me to join you," she said in an overly bright voice.

" _Right_... I believe this is where I back away slowly," he said.

The woman tried to convince him to take her along, but having only just gotten rid of one annoying female, Right couldn't imagine taking on another. She might be a good fighter, but she was also clearly as crazy as an outhouse rat. In his experience, "crazy" and "weapons" were a bad mix.

* * *

There being no room to stay at the Inn, Right and Alistair headed back outside. Their options were clearly pretty limited; they could try to find some place here in town to sleep, or they could head out of town and camp in the wilds. Given the crowding, stench, and undoubted lightfingeredness of the inhabitants – not to mention not liking the idea of sleeping anywhere near desperate people who'd heard about the sizable bounty on the heads of the Grey Wardens – Right figured 'head out of town' was the smart option.

On the way out of town they passed a metal cage. A tall man – far taller then anyone Right had ever seen before – stood in it, muttering to himself in an unknown tongue. Curious, Right walked over to take a closer look at him.

The giant man looked at him as he approached. "You aren't one of my captors. I have nothing to say that would amuse a dwarf. Leave me in peace."

"What are you?" Right asked curiously.

"A prisoner. I'm in a cage, am I not? I've been placed here by the Chantry. I am Sten of the Beresaad – the vanguard – of the qunari peoples."

"Qunari?"

"If you haven't heard of us, that is your own shortcoming. Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but qunari are renowned warriors. If we could release him, perhaps he might help us," Alistair interjected.

"I suggest you leave me to my fate." Sten responded.

"What did you do to end up in here?"

"I have been convicted of murder. Have the villagers not spoken of this?"

"Who did you murder?" Right asked, expecting to here the usual claim of ignorance and innocence.

"The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

"Are you guilty?" he asked, startled at the forthright answer.

"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed? However I feel, whatever I've done, my life is forfeit now."

"If you feel guilty about the murder, why did you do it?"

The qunari snorted. "Either you have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret."

"Capturing you must have been difficult," Right observed, looking at Sten's impressively tall and muscular form.

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders."

"You didn't resist capture?" Right exclaimed, surprised.

"I waited for several days until the knights arrived."

" _Why?_ "

"Because I wished to."

Right frowned. He couldn't imagine sticking around some place after killing people, nor passively giving in to capture. Unless... "Are you interested in seeking atonement?"

"Death will be my atonement."

"There are other ways to redeem yourself," he pointed out.

"Perhaps. What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?"

"You could help me defend the land against the Blight."

"The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?" Sten asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes, I am."

"Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill... though I suppose not every legend is true."

"Maybe the revered mother would let him free?" Alistair suggested.

Sten shrugged, folding his arms across his massive chest. "Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

Right frowned in thought. He didn't like the thought of returning to the chantry to talk to that sour old woman again, but on the other hand, having the huge warrior along could only help, at least assuming he wasn't normally given to random slaughter, and it didn't sound like he was.

With a sigh, Right led the way back.

* * *

The Revered Mother was less then pleased to see them back again so soon, and even less happy when she heard why they were there. She refused to release the qunari, even when Right invoked the Right of Conscription. Angered, he resorted to threats, which set off Alistair. Seeing how openly upset Alistair was at least convinced the old harridan to give up the key to the cage. She stiffly ordered them not to return.

"Fine by me," Right snarled, and stalked out, Alistair an angry presence at his back. Angry at _him_.

As they left the Chantry, Right found himself thinking it would have been simpler just to attempt picking the cage's locks, or seeing if he could steal the key somehow. Too late for that now though.

Sten was surprised to be released, but stoically fell into line with Alistair and Stench. He was further surprised, but approving, when Right was able to outfit him with some armour and a weapon.

Right led the way further out of town, looking for a suitable spot to camp for the night.

* * *

They settled down in a cold camp at the base of a large tree on a small hillock well outside of town, overlooking a small lake. Right handed around some of the food hed picked up in town earlier from the merchant he'd helped.

Right frowned at Sten as he handed over food and water. "Are you all right? You were in that cage for weeks," he asked.

"You are concerned? No need. I am fit enough to fight," Sten answered shortly, and nibbled slowly at what he'd been given, washing it down with small sips of water.

Right nodded, and looked around. Alistair had moved around to the far side of the tree from them, sitting with his back against it, looking towards the town. Right wandered over.

Alistair gave him a wary look. "What do you need?" he asked shortly.

"I thought you might want to talk about Duncan," Right said hesitantly, lowering himself to sit nearby.

Alistair frowned. "You don't have to do that. I know you didn't know him as long as I did."

"I just thought you might need to talk," Right said, and started to rise to his feet again.

"I... should have handled it better," Alistair abruptly said, looking away. "Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn't have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and... and everything. I'm sorry."

Right nodded, glad that Alistair realized he'd been acting stupidly since Ostagar. "Just don't let it happen again," he said softly.

Alistair's face hardened. "Don't worry. So long as we're looking at taking down that _bastard_ , Loghain, I won't be losing any sleep at night. And quite frankly, I regret you ever seeing me fall apart. I wish you hadn't been there at all. And _thanks_ for the warm concern. For a moment there I thought you might actually have cared." He rose to his feet, and stalked off into the darkness.

Right stared after him in surprise. Clearly Alistair had taken his words in some other way then how he'd meant them. He thought of following after him, trying to explain – but likely he'd only manage to make things worse. With a curse, he returned to the other side of the tree, and settled down by Stench, giving the hound's ears a good scratching. "You know what I meant, don't you?" he said plaintively.

Stench whined, and laid his head on Right's knee.


	13. Back On The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right decided they should head back into Lothering again before setting out, just in case they could find any more supplies for their journey. They ate a cold breakfast first, then started back to town.

Right decided they should head back into Lothering again before setting out, just in case they could find any more supplies for their journey. They ate a cold breakfast first, then started back to town.

They were passing by a large windmill on the outskirts of town when a group of men moved into the road before them. As they slowed to a stop, a second group moved into position behidn them, cutting off their retreat.

"We done heard what was said. You're a Warden," one of the men called out nervously. "I don't know if you killed King Cailan, and Maker forgive me, I don't care. But that bounty on your head could feed a lot of hungry bellies."

The three of them were already drawing their weapons when the man ordered those with him to attack, and the two groups charged them.

It was a slaughter; the men had little to no weapons training, no armour, and even less co-ordination then the darkspawn, their poorly wielded weapons more of a danger to their compatriots then to the Grey Wardens. Alistair looked sickened as he winnowed down their attackers. Sten looked grim, but Right wasn't sure if that was in reaction to the heavily one-sided battle, or just his normal expression. Right just concentrated on killing; he'd far rather a one-sided fight where _he_ was on the one side then the opposite.

He didn't even bother checking the corpses for anything valuable afterwards. "Do we really need to go into town?" Alistair asked, sounding sickened.

"No," Right abruptly decided. "Come on, let's just leave."

They turned and went back in the other direction, looking for a way back up onto the Imperial Highway.

* * *

Some way out of town they spotted a ramp leading up to the elevated roadway. As they approached it, they spotted a familiar form sitting on a rock by the road; Leliana, the woman with the impressive weaponry. She rose as they approached, a wide smile on her face.

"Oh, hello again! So will you let me help you? Will you let me come?" she called out.

"Not you again," Right groaned.

"I'll be honest. When I heard about the darkspawn, I felt something urging me to leave my sheltered life in the cloister and do something. Anything. And then the vision... It cannot be coincidence, that you are brought here so soon after I was called by the Maker," she said pleadingly. "He wants me to go with you. I just know it."

Alistair drew Right back a few steps. "Her plea seems wholehearted and even though she seems a little... strange, she does have skill. I vote to let her come along," Alistair whispered.

"Alistair, she's one archdemon short of a Blight," Right pointed out acerbically.

"Yes, but she seems more... 'Ooh, pretty colours!' than 'Muahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill!'" Alistair said.

Right gave him a disgusted look. "Don't make me stab-kill _you_ ," he said quietly, then raised his voice loud enough for Leliana to hear as well. "She's not coming."

Leliana sighed in disappointment. "I shall venture forth on my own then. May the Maker smile on your path," she said, then turned and walked away, back in the direction of Lothering.

"Just so long as he keeps your path well away from ours," Right muttered, then led his small party up the ramp to the roadway, and started north again. The highway should reach the West Road soon, and from there they could get pretty much anywhere.

* * *

It was almost mid-day when they heard sounds of a fight ahead, and spotted a small band of darkspawn attacking a couple of short, stout figures. They hurried forward, and found themselves rescuing a couple of dwarfs from attack.

It turned out to be a merchant, one Bodahn Feddic by name, and his son, Sandal. The two were overjoyed at their rescue, and Bodahn happily rewarded the group for their unexpected but timely assistance, then asked if he and his son could follow along.

Right couldn't see any reason why not, and several advantages to having a merchant handy, so he readily agreed.

Bodahn nodded his thanks. "We'll have to repair and reload my cart, but my boy and I should catch up with you when you camp for the night," he said.

Right nodded, and they set out again.

Not long afterwards, they came to the intersection with the West Road. Unlike the elevated stonework of the Imperial Highway it was a plain dirt track, well-rutted from the passage of ox-drawn carts, meandering along the curves of the landscape instead of cutting across it in a straight line. They turned west, in the direction of Redcliffe, and continued on until nightfall.

Bodahn and Sandal caught up not long after they made camp, and when he saw how crude their camp was – nothing more then a simple firepit dug in the ground – Bodahn quickly offered to sell them some blankets. It was the most comfortable camp they'd had since Ostagar.

* * *

He dreamed again, of darkness, then flying out over a long deep drop, like the pass under Ostagar, filled with seething movement and spots of light – fires, or torches, or couldn't tell which. Something large perched overhead, roaring in triumph... something _evil_.

Right woke with a gasp, sat upright, half-expecting to still hear the echoes of the triumphant roar. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands, telling himself it had only been a dream, then looked around. Sten and Stench were sleeping soundly, stretched out motionless some distance from the fire.

Alistair, awake and on watch, was sitting nearby, minding the fire. "Bad dreams, huh?" he said softly.

"Why are you bothering me? I'm fine," Right growled, embarrassed to have been caught being scared awake by a nightmare.

Alistair snorted. "It's just that you were shouting in your sleep. Loud. And not in a good, this-is-private way, either. You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it... 'talks' to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

"Are these dreams going to happen a lot?" Right asked apprehensively.

Alistair shrugged. "It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't. Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too."

"You could have told me earlier," Right said, annoyed.

"I know. I've just been so distracted with the, you know, massacre of all my friends and the war and all that... sorry," he said, in a voice that made it clear he wasn't sorry at all. "Anyhow, you're up now, right? Let's pull up camp and get a move on."

He rose to his feet and stalked off. Right frowned at his back, then shook his head and rose to his feet, and headed off in the opposite direction, in search of a convenient tree.


	14. Deadly Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That set the pattern for their next few days of travel; set out in the morning, make their way as far west towards Redcliffe as they could in one day, then camp, Bodahn and Sandal following at their own pace, catching up with them again at some point each evening.

That set the pattern for their next few days of travel; set out in the morning, make their way as far west towards Redcliffe as they could in one day, then camp, Bodahn and Sandal following at their own pace, catching up with them again at some point each evening.

The road branched and branched again, random offshoots heading off towards distant villages along the lake shore somewhere to the north of them, or in the mountains to the south and west. The West Road itself curved back and forth considerably, following the contours of the land, sometimes wending miles off of the most direct path to Redcliffe in order to avoid making a particularly steep climb or descent, it generally being easier to get ox-drawn carts around such obstacles then over them.

It was at a spot where the road had meandered well south of the lake, and was winding in and out of the foothills of the mountains, that they first ran into some serious trouble. As they approached near to where a side-road branched off up into the mountains, a woman came pelting down it, a look of distress on her face.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" she exclaimed, a look of relief crossing her face at the sight of them. "We need help – they attacked the waggons. Please help us! Follow me – I'll take you to them," she begged desperately, then turned and started back up the hill without even waiting to be sure they were following.

Alistair immediately set off in her wake. Right bit back a curse, and followed after him, wishing the woman had waited long enough for them to get some idea of what sort of trouble they were following her into; who or what had ambushed her party, and in what number?

She'd apparently come some distance in search of help; the main road was well out of sight behind them before they came in sight of the the wrecked waggons blocking the road, a tumble of smashed crates and motionless bodies around them, the oxen lying dead in their traces. A single figure stood motionless in the middle of the carnage, shorter then the woman; an elf, Right saw as they drew closer.

The woman stopped when she reached him, then turned to look back at them. A sardonic smile crossed the elf's face, and he made a commanding gesture with his hand. The apparent corpses moved, drawing weapons as they rose to their feet, clearly uninjured, while archers appeared on the heights above them. The only things dead here were the oxen; it was an ambush. Before they could retreat, a huge dead tree fell across the road behind them, blocking it entirely.

"The Grey Wardens die here!" the elf shouted, and his men charged them, the woman grinning maliciously as her hands were enveloped with balls of glittering energy; a mage.

"Get the mage first," Alistair ordered as they drew their own weapons, then he charged forward. The ambushers hadn't been expecting that; following on Alistair's heels, they managed to break through the closing ring of attackers and close on the woman.

Crackling energy came snapping from her hands, coruscating around them. Right bit back a pained cry, and blindly swung his weapon, landing a lucky blow that temporarily stunned her. Before she could recover and resume spell-casting, they cut her down.

The remaining attackers had closed in around them by then. It became a fierce melee, made worse by the sniping shots of the archers on the heights overhead that required them to divide their attention between the men around them and the sky. Alistair whirled and slashed, his heavier armour and shield protecting him from the worst of it. Sten's fighting style reminded Right of the dead Ser Jory; slower, but so much more brutal, his heavy two-handed weapon scything through their opponents when they didn't dodge back in time. Stench raced around, growling furiously, ham-stinging unprotected legs, and doing terrible damage to anyone knocked off their feet.

Right found himself battling the elf. He fought like a man possessed, a fierce grin on his face, weapons flashing in the sun, but his men were outmatched by the skills of the wardens' group, and with his one trump card, the mage, an early victim of the battle, it wasn't long until he was vainly trying to hold off all four of them. A blow from the pommel of Sten's weapon laid him out, after which they raced up the cliff path to take on the archers. In minutes, it was all over.

They sheathed their weapons and returned to the roadway. Sten looked down at the elf who'd led the attack. "He lives," he observed.

Right nodded, and retrieved a coil of rope from his pack, then used it to bind the elf so he couldn't escape.

* * *

They'd finished checking over the corpses of the dead and the contents of the broken crates before the elf finally roused, groaning in pain. He had a sizable goose-egg forming on the side of his head from the impact of Sten's sword.

"Mmm... what? I... oh," he groaned, then pushed himself partially upright, frowning at his bound hands before looking up at Right. He had darkly tanned skin, hair of a rich coppery brown colour, dark blue eyes, and a badly dazed look. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet," he observed in a strongly-accented voice.

"That could be easily rectified," Right said warningly.

"Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven't killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?"

"I decided I wanted to torture you, first."

"Ohhh, so you kept me around to have a bit of fun, did you? Hmm. But the purpose behind torture is usually to interrogate, yes? In that case, despite the potential for fun, perhaps I'll save you a bit of time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly."

"What are the Antivan Crows?" Right asked, puzzled. That explained the unfamiliar accent, anyway – it must be Antivan.

"An order of assassins, of course. Out of Antiva. I suppose you wouldn't hear much of them out here, but where I come from we're rather infamous," the elf replied.

Right frowned. So this elf was supposedly a professional assassin? He didn't think much of his ability; the ambush had been poorly executed, only the assassin himself and the mage showing any appreciable level of skill in their attacks; most of the attackers had been little more then common thugs, barely a step up from the villagers that had attacked the wardens in Lothering. Assassins were supposed to be subtle; this frontal assault had been anything but.

"Not for being good assassins, I see," he said.

"Oh, fine. Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty!"

"Who hired you to kill us?" Right demanded.

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that's it."

"When were you to see him next?"

"I wasn't. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results... if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then."

" _If_ you had failed?" Right asked dryly.

"What can I say? I am an eternal optimist," the elf said, shrugging insouciantly. "Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don't they?" he asked, and laughed briefly, then frowned at their lack of response. "No, I don't suppose you'd find that funny, would you?" he continued.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Right asked suspiciously.

"Why not? I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Were you paid to talk my ear off, then?"

"Consider it something I'm throwing in for free," the elf said lightly. "As it is, if you're done with the interrogation, I've a proposal for you. If you're of a mind."

Right folded his arms. "I'm listening. Make it quick."

"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead."

"Why would I want your service?"

"Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated... now that my attempts have failed. I also know a great many jokes. Twelve massage techniques, six different card games? I do wonderful at parties, no?" he said, starting to sound more then a little desperate.

Right eyed him thoughtfully. He had to admit, he was curious about the elf; why had he chosen such a poor way of attacking them, when it would have been laughably easy for him to so something more indirectly lethal, such as sneaking into their camp one night and cutting their throats, or poisoning their food, or any of a dozen other methods Right could easily think of. He'd also shown considerable skill with his weapons – Right would have been in trouble if the others had taken much longer to join him in combating the elf. And... he was amusing. It would be nice to have a change from the bitter Alistair and the stoic Sten.

"What do you want in return?" he asked suspiciously, wondering if there was some catch to the elf's terms.

"Well... let's see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

"Very well. I accept your offer," he announced.

"What?" Alistair exclaimed. "You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that _really_ seem like a good idea?"

Right gave Alistair a look. "You're here, aren't you? Collecting cast-offs is what I do." he responded.

He crouched down and untied the ropes binding the elf, then helped him to his feet.

Zevran stood straight, and looked Right in the eyes as he spoke. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear."

Right nodded acceptance, then turned to survey their surroundings. The felled tree prevented them from returning downhill the way they'd came; they might as well continue further up this road, and hope it would at some point meet with one that could bring them back to the main highway.

* * *

 **A/N: I always run with the "Zevran ASAP" mod, so yes, it's possible for my warden to encounter Zev this early in the game. For the purposes of this story I've also loaded the "Extra Dog Slot" mod, so that I can retain Dog as part of the regular group rather then having to either drop him or constantly shuffle group makeup to keep him in the story.**


	15. Ups and Downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They didn't pass even a single turn-off all that day, the road winding higher and higher into the foothills. Eventually they had to stop and make camp for the night, choosing a place where a small stream paralleled the road for a short stretch, widening at one point into a good-sized pond with grassy banks.

They didn't pass even a single turn-off all that day, the road winding higher and higher into the foothills. Eventually they had to stop and make camp for the night, choosing a place where a small stream paralleled the road for a short stretch, widening at one point into a good-sized pond with grassy banks.

Alistair, Right and Sten fell into a well-practised routine, Sten heading off in search of firewood while Alistair looked around for stones and Right cleared an area of growth for a fire pit. Stench sniffed around the edges of the clearing for a moment, then cleared the stream in a single bound and trotted off into the woods on the far side, nose to the ground. If they were lucky he'd find more then just supper for himself. The mabari was quite happy to share his kills with Right, at least once his own stomach was filled.

Zevran eyed all this activity, then joined Right in clearing the area for the fire pit, efficiently cutting turves of sod free and stacking them off to the side. He watched with obvious interest but no comment as Right dug a shallow pit, edged it with the gathered stones, and laid the fire. He started with a low mound of dry grass, leaves, and bits of bark, laying a criss-cross pattern of small twigs over top, then some lengths of thin branches over top of that. When Sten returned with an armful of large chunks of wood gathered from deadfalls, Right used a flint and steel to strike sparks, catching the tinder aflame, waited for the larger twigs and branches to catch, then carefully added wood to build a proper fire.

Alistair, meanwhile, got out their one pot, half-filled it with clean water at the stream, and placed it on a rock positioned for the purpose inside the ring of stones, the fire lapping around it on three sides. Right dropped in a scant handful of dried vegetables and shredded in some jerky, then added a generous handful of barley. Apart from the odd time when Stench had a kill to share, or one of the men had been lucky enough to bring down some game while they travelled, this pottage of grain and dried foodstuffs was the staple of their diet. And they were getting increasingly low on everything but grain.

It would be an hour or two until the meal was ready to eat. In the meantime, they scattered around the fire and began spreading out their bedrolls for later, Alistair and Right out of established habit taking spots on opposite sides of the fire pit, as far as they could get from each other, Sten off to one side. Zevran looked at the arrangement, shrugged, and moved to the side of the fire opposite Sten. He dropped his pack – a rather smaller one then theirs – to the ground, then strode over to where a small cluster of willows grew along the stream, cut several lengthy withes, and returned.

As the three watched, he removed a small cylindrical roll of silken cloth, shook it out, and threaded the withes through channels in the fabric before driving their ends into the ground, rapidly erecting a small tent. A rather larger leather-wrapped bundle hanging from the bottom of his pack provided a second roll of fabric, which when shaken out was revealed to be an odd puffy blanket. It consisted of two layers of thin silk sewn together all around the edges and at intervals across the surface, with some light material sandwiched between the two, compressible down to a small volume but fluffing up as he shook it out, changing it to a very warm-looking and considerably thicker affair.

"That's... some kind of quilt, isn't it?" Alistair asked curiously.

"Yes it is," Zevran said agreeably as he spread it out in his tent, then squatted down to root through the contents of his backpack. "I consider your Ferelden weather cold at the best of times, and I have found it is best to be well-prepared. Though even this will not serve to keep me sufficiently warm in one of your winters. Perhaps by then I'll have found some other way of staying warm at night," he said, raising his eyebrows, then rose to his feet and headed off to the stream, a small metal pot in one hand. He filled it with water and returned, spending some few minutes fiddling with a forked stick to hang the pot over the fire, then settled back on his haunches, looking around at the other three men.

Alistair was pulling off his shield and armour, unbuckling it piece by piece and stacking it nearby – the gloves, vambraces, greaves, and helmet, anyway. He kept his breastplate on, preferring to sleep uncomfortably against the chance of having to fight off a night attack in nothing but his gambeson.

Sten didn't bother with even that much of a gesture towards comfort, preferring to remain in his armour at all times. Instead he unsheathed his sword, removed oil and a whetstone from his pack, and settled down to work on sharpening its edge, dulled slightly from the earlier fight with Zevran's men.

Right, too, settled down to sharpen his weapons. He wondered whatever had happened to the knight whose sword he'd conned that messenger into giving him. Dead in the battle, most likely; by all reports, very few men had managed to escape Ostagar after Loghain's unexpected withdrawal.

Zevran, too, settled down to work on his blades while they waited for their meal to cook, pulling them from an astonishing variety of places about his person. He was being a bit of a show-off with that, Right decided, and suspected that even so he was only revealing the locations of some of his weapons. Right watched enviously as the elf set to sharpening the edges of his two main daggers, wicked looking blades almost as long as his forearms, of considerably better quality then Right had ever owned. Almost made him regret not killing the elf; those blades could have been his by now.

After a while the water in Zevran's small pot came to the boil. The elf removed it from the fire, and sprinkled in some dried herbs from his pack. A delicious smell wafted around the camp. The elf waited a few minutes while his brew steeped, in the meantime removing a small wooden box from his pack. He flipped open the lid, and extracted a fine porcelain drinking bowl from its well-padded interior, then poured himself a bowl of tea and settled back, sipping at his drink, a contented smile on his face.

Right shook his head and bent over his weapons, giving the edges a final wipe with an oiled cloth before resheathing them. Clearly the elf had different ideas about roughing it then most men did.

* * *

"I tell you, this is _garbage_ ," Zevran exclaimed, pushing away his bowl of barley pottage. "In Antiva, we wouldn't even feed this to _dogs_."

Stench whined and looked hungrily at the abandoned bowl of food. His hunting this evening had not been very successful.

"Go ahead, my fine furry fellow," Zevran said to him. "It is all yours."

Stench rose and stepped forward, and inhaled the contents of the bowl in two enormous bites.

"Complain all you want," Right growled, annoyed. "But seeing as this is all we have to eat, you're just going to have to go hungry."

"All _you_ may have to eat perhaps," the elf said, pulling over his pack and rooting around in it. " _I_ however am rather better supplied."

He pulled a square tin from his pack, and pried open its lid. Folding back an interior wrapping of waxed parchment, he extracted a large, thin wafer – some sort of biscuit or cracker by the look of it – and bit savagely into it, looking sullen as he chewed methodically.

Sten looked up from his own bowl of food, nostrils flaring, and sniffed. In a surprisingly fast movement for someone of his size, he rose to his feet, stepped over the fire, and scooped up the tin and lid, before retreating to his own spot.

Zevran bounced to his feet. "Hey! Those are mine!" he exclaimed angrily. " _My_ cookies!"

"No, they are not," the qunari said firmly, neatly tucked one into his mouth in a single bite, then closed the tin and put it away in his own pack.

Zevran stood there a moment, mouth opening and closing. He glanced at Alistair and Right, and seeing that he wasn't likely to get any help from them in reclaiming his baked goods, dropped back down again. "Fine then, be that way," he said bitterly. He poured himself out the last of his tea and sat sipping it, brooding over the fire.

* * *

The road did eventually intersect another, one that seemed to run back in the general direction of the Lake. But this road, too, soon turned back into the foothills, then began to work its way up into the mountains. Clearly they were now well off the road to Redcliffe. They debated turning back, but retracing days of travel did not appeal. None of them were quite sure where they were any more, other then somewhere in the Frostback mountains west of the lake; Zevran had only a vague familiarity with some of Ferelden's geography, Sten had relied on maps that he no longer possessed, and Alistair had never been in this area before, the extent of his personal experience of the Ferelden countryside apparently being limited to the immediate area of Redcliffe, and the main road between there and Denerim. They hadn't seen Bodahn and Sandal since being detoured into Zevran's little ambush; presumably the two merchants had, unlike them continued on the right path.

"If we can get far enough north from here, we'll reach Orzammar," Right pointed out. He was liking the idea of returning to Orzammar, a Grey Warden, able to march in and demand the help of the king thanks to the treaties Alistair had secreted away in his pack. That'd show those dusters...

In the end it was more a stubborn reluctance to spend days retracing their route then anything else that kept them going forward. Other roads joined or split off from the one they were on occasionally, but it was clear that it was the most well-travelled of the paths they saw, so they stuck with it, climbing higher and higher in the mountains until the path entered a narrow pass leading north.

* * *

Not too far into the pass they came across a merchant camped in the middle of the road, looking glum. He was not, unfortunately, carrying any food but his supplies, which he was unwilling to sell, especially since he wasn't sure how long he was going to stuck here. Something had spooked his mule off into the woods; he'd sent his elven servant off after it, but so far neither had returned.

He was at least able to tell them where they were; Sulcher's Pass, one of the only reasonably passable routes north of this side of the lake.

On the theory that his servant might not return, or might not have the mule when he did, the merchant had started sorting through his goods, trying to reduce the load on the waggon to something he could reasonably pull himself. Much of what he was choosing to potentially abandon was bulky items of low value – raw hides, some baulks of untreated fleeces, some large cheaply-made and very heavy pottery jars meant for grain storage, things like that. Nothing that Right thought would be worth the time or effort of attempting to salvage, certainly not when he didn't have a cart and mule of his own to carry it off with.

Then the merchant surprised him, pulling a wrapped bundle off the cart and offering it to them free of charge. "It's supposed to be the control rod for a golem," he explained. "I'd rather not be lugging around something that might be mistaken for a gemstone by some bandit. To be honest, I don't even know if it'll be of use to you, but I paid too much for it to simply throw it away." He folded back the wrapping to show a lengthy crystalline rod, about a cubit in length, one end of the sharp-edged crystal roughly wrapped with leather to make it safe to hold.

Right felt excited. The man clearly didn't realize what a priceless treasure he was just giving away. A golem control rod! If the golem still existed, and was in usable condition, anyway... though even if it didn't the rod would still have considerable value to collectors in Orzammar as an historical curiosity.

The merchant at least knew where the golem was supposed to be, and sketched out a rough map of how to get there, far back to the south again, in the Hinterlands not far north-west from Ostagar.

Right frowned; he didn't like the idea of backtracking so far, not when by the merchant's words they were already halfway to Orzammar, but if they didn't go and check for the golem soon, they might miss their chance at it entirely. As remote as the village where the golem apparently could be found was, it couldn't be long until the darkspawn scattering out from Ostagar stumbled across it. Right had little doubt they'd destroy the golem if they found it. Golems had been built to destroy _them_ , after all.

They camped overnight with the merchant, then headed back south again, leaving the merchant still waiting for his missing servant to return.


	16. The Stone Prisoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They had a surprisingly uneventful trip back south. The route the merchant had mapped out for them kept them mainly up in the mountains, travelling from one remote village, mining town, lumber camp, or small steading to another; the sort of places only minor merchants would bother to stop at. At least it gave them a chance to restock their foodstuffs, which Zevran for one heartily applauded.

They had a surprisingly uneventful trip back south. The route the merchant had mapped out for them kept them mainly up in the mountains, travelling from one remote village, mining town, lumber camp, or small steading to another; the sort of places only minor merchants would bother to stop at. At least it gave them a chance to restock their foodstuffs, which Zevran for one heartily applauded.

Tired of his endless carping about their monotonous diet, they finally told him to do better, if he could. After that first meal, they unanimously voted that he was off all other chores and on permanent cooking duty from then on. Even Alistair voted yes on that, though not without some pointed comments about always being sure to check their food for poison before eating it.

Right's fears that the darkspawn horde might reach Honnleath before them proved well-founded; the closer they got to where the village was, the more encounters they had with small roaming bands. Finally, one mid-morning, they spotted a column of smoke rising into the sky, and reached the village to find that they'd arrived too late; darkspawn had already discovered the isolated settlement, and were in the process of killing the inhabitants and wrecking the town.

Even as they hurried up the narrow track towards the town, terror-struck people fled past them heading downhill, screaming in fear of the darkspawn chasing after them. They had reason to fear, as the already-dead bodies of their friends and neighbours scattered on the ground or hanging from buildings amply demonstrated.

The foursome drew their weapons and hurried forward, Stench running silently at their side, and hewed down the darkspawn pursuers, then continued on into the town to see if there was anyone else they could save.

The place was swarming with darkspawn; they fought a running battle, moving in from the gates to the town square. The source of the smoke they'd spotted as they approached was obvious, a stone tower to one side of the square, most of its upper portions fallen to one side, still burning. The golem they'd come in search of stood on a small grassy hillock in the middle of the square, insensible to the battle raging around it.

Right lost track of how many darkspawn he'd killed, as the five of them cut down – or bit down, in Stench's case – masses of hurlocks and genlocks. Finally the last fell dead, the village at least temporarily reclaimed.

They looked around, hoping to find more survivors. The houses lay silent and empty, some near the gate bearing mute evidence that people had been caught there by the darkspawn, others seeming to have been hastily abandoned, with no sign as to what had subsequently happened to the owners.

Sten stood in the square and looked around, frowning. "There are not enough bodies," he said.

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked.

"What I said. There are not enough bodies. Not for a place of this size."

"Perhaps they have escaped?" Zevran asked.

"I do not think so. There would have been signs of them leaving. They are still here, somewhere."

"Well, we can look for them in a minute," Right said. "Time for me to acquire a golem," he announced, and walked over to where it stood motionless, arms raised as if to catch something, or as if it had been frozen mid-cry. He dug in his pack and got out the control rod, reverently unwrapping it, and pointed it at the golem.

He spoke the activation word. "Dulef gar!"

Nothing happened. Right swore; this entire journey back south was starting to look like it may have been a colossal waste of time.

* * *

They began a second search of the town, looking for any clue as to where the townspeople had vanished too.

"Over here," Sten abruptly called. He pointed at a door leading into the base of the fallen tower. "I see signs of many people having gone this way."

Alistair looked from the cobbled ground at their feet to Sten. "You can read tracks on cobblestones!" he asked.

"Of course. You cannot?" Sten asked, sounding mildly surprised, then pushed the door open and led the way inside.

The tower proved to have extensive cellars carved deep into the ground underlying the town. They were divided into rooms for an assortment of different purposes, the most pervasively obvious being brewing .

They found more darkspawn down here, as well as the occasional all-too-obviously human corpse. Deeper and deeper they went, slaying darkspawn as they encountered them, eventually emerging in a large underground room. It swarmed with darkspawn, roaring in frustration as they surged around a glowing barrier at one end of the room, a barrier keeping them away from a frightened huddle of people – the missing townspeople, still alive.

The darkspawn weren't expecting an attack from the rear, and the group slew a number of them before they even realized they were there. The creatures quickly re-oriented themselves, attacking the group instead of the impervious barrier. One of them even proved to be a spell-caster, but he died as quickly under their blades as the lesser darkspawn did.

The darkspawn all dead, they approached the barrier.

"by the Maker, we're saved!" on of the women exclaimed, a joyous expression on her face.

"You... weren't sent by the bann, were you? To save us?" a man asked.

Right shook his head. "I wasn't sent by anyone."

The villagers were shaken to learn that they could easily have died here, safe from the darkspawn perhaps, but without food and water... they wouldn't have lasted more then a few days at most.

"I should I should be grateful that someone came at all," the man who'd spoken said. "Thank you! But... if no one sent you, why are you here? If you don't mind my asking..."

"A merchant told me about this place, actually."

It didn't take the man long to figure out they must have come because of the golem. He introduced himself as Matthias, the son of Willhelm, the mage who'd originally owned it. It was his mother who'd sold the control rod, after Willhelm's death – a death that had, by all appearances, been the work of the golem itself. Matthias suspected she'd forgotten the correct word, and that this was why the rod hadn't worked.

Then the man begged them to help him find his daughter, Amalia. Apparently the cellars did not end here; there were even lower levels, where his father's laboratory had been. The girl, terrified by the darkspawn, had fled deeper. And the one man who'd been close enough to try and stop her had died, victim of the traps the mage had left to guard his secrets.

Right considered the offer. On the one hand he didn't like the thought of going poking around in strange trap-filled places, but on the other hand... a mage's lab! Who knew that useful odds and ends might be picked up in there. And if it would get him the _right_ word to control the golem... besides, they had two rogues in the group, between the two of them he and Zevran should be able to spot and deal with most traps. At least as long as the mage didn't have any particularly _unusual_ ones.

"I'll see if I can find her," he said.

"You will? Thank the Maker!" Matthias exclaimed.

* * *

The lower tunnels had clearly not been used in years; thick dust lay on the floor, still showing the tracks of Amalia's passage, and layer upon layer of cobwebs hung from the walls.

It wasn't long until they encountered the first serious defences; not physical traps, as Right had thought, but wraiths. Dust and ashes boiled up, forming grotesque bodies, a mockery of human shape. They were difficult to kill, but it could be done.

While they caught their breath afterwards, Right took a quick look round the room, finding several small valuables worth taking, including a rather nice ring that he quickly slipped onto his own finger.

They worked their way further in, eventually reaching a barrier much like the one the townspeople had used to hide from the darkspawn. Right touched it, then stepped through when it proved to be permeable, the others following close behind.

They found themselves in a large circular room. A strange contraption occupied much of the floor, jets of fire leaping from ring to ring. Between it and them was the girl, Amalia, crouched down and talking to a large ginger cat.

She looked up as they approached, and smiled happily. "You've come to play, haven't you?" she asked. "We're playing a guessing game."

Right frowned, puzzled. "I'm not here to play game," he told her.

The girl wasn't pleased to hear that. She told them to go away, claiming the cat found them distracting.

Right's frown deepened. The girl's reactions weren't at all what he'd have expected. Perhaps her earlier scare at the presence of the darkspawn – not to mention what sort of terrible things she may have witnessed before she and the others took refuge down here – might have addled her brain.

"Sure, let's leave," he said coaxingly. "You can bring the cat."

"I can't go! Kitty says she can't come, and I'm not leaving her... she'd be lonely!" the girl exclaimed.

Stench, who'd worked his way to Right's side during the conversation and been sniffing the air suspiciously suddenly bristled and gave a low, threatening growl, his eyes fixed on the cat.

A strange glow lit the cat's eyes, and they heard words – words that didn't appear to come from the cat's mouth, but where still clearly spoken by the creature. "I would not suggest leaving in such hostile company anyway, Amalia. Look how they act."

"That's not really a cat, is it!" he exclaimed.

"But of course she's a cat! She's just a cat that talks," the girl responded.

"Talking is simple enough, once you know how," the cat said complacently, wrapping its tail neatly around its feet.

"What are you, really?" Right demanded. He was beginning to have his suspicions; not darkspawn, but a demon, the sort of creature mages were supposedly responsible for creating, or bringing here from somewhere else... he was a little vague on the details, having only been half-listening when Alistair had talked about them once one night.

"I am a cat. Really. Nothing you will say convince Amalia otherwise; I am her friend, while _you_ are just a stranger."

"I'm not leaving without the girl," Right said, voice hardening.

The cat tried to convince him to make a deal with her; a deal that would see her freed from the cellar, and possessing Amalia.

"I don't make deals with _your_ kind," Right told her; the one thing he did clearly remember from Alistair's stories were that demons were untrustworthy. Even if the offer she'd made had sounded tempting – and it didn't – he didn't trust the creature to keep it.

That was apparently the last straw for the demon; it dissolved into a glowing ball of energy, and swooped at the girl. Amalia had time for one last, frightened scream – and then she was Amalia no longer.

The demon she transformed into might have been beautiful, in the right circumstances, but what it mainly was, was terrifying. Twice the stature of the young girl, with violet skin and purple-black horns on its head, barely wearing an outfit of filmy lavender veils and fine gold chains. It laughed, and gestured, and demons that glowed like freshly poured metal clawed their way up out of the floor. Even from where they stood, Right could feel the heat radiating off of the uncanny creatures.

They attacked, their heat even worse at close quarters. Right could feel his skin drawing taunt with the heat, smell his hair frizzling. Thankfully the creatures proved weak; as long as they kept away from them, avoided their direct touch, they could easily cut down the terrifying things. One knocked Sten unconscious to the floor, a vivid red burn mark rising on his skin where it had touched him. Alistair slammed his shield into it, knocking it away before it could do any worse damage to Sten, and they slew it, then turned on the original demon. Swords and daggers rose, fell... and the demon was no more.

They returned the way they'd came, half-carrying Sten, who was still groggy from the blow that had knocked him out. They tripped a few more of the long-dead mage's demon-producing traps on the way out, but they'd already faced the worst there was to find in his cellars. The lesser shades summoned by the defences were easily dispatched.

Matthias was heart-broken to learn of his daughter's death. He told them the correct phrase to wake the golem, and gave them a small monetary reward, then left to join his neighbours in evacuating the village. More refugees to join the northward exodus.

* * *

Right unwrapped the control rod a second time. "Dulen harn," he said.

For a long moment nothing happened. He began to wonder if he once again had the wrong phrase, or the wrong rod, or if, perhaps, the golem was defunct after so many years standing exposed to the elements.

Then there was a sharp snapping sound, followed by the grating of stone on stone, and the golem _moved_ , dust and sand shedding explosively out of its joints.

Glowing eyes stared down at Right.


	17. Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I knew that the day would come when _someone_ would find the control rod," the golem said. "And not even a mage this time... probably stumbled across the control rod by accident. Typical!"

"I knew that the day would come when _someone_ would find the control rod," the golem said. "And not even a mage this time... probably stumbled across the control rod by accident. Typical!"

"Errr... hello to you, too," Right said cautiously.

"I was just beginning to get used to the quiet, too – tell me, are _all_ the villagers dead?"

"No, not all of them."

"Some got away then? How... unfortunate," the golem said, a noticeable edge of malice in its voice.

"You didn't care for them, I take it?" Right asked.

"Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and after thirty years as a captive audience, I was as familiar with these villagers as one could possibly be," the golem said dismissively, then hesitated. "Not that I wished their fate on them, no, but it did make for a _delightful_ change of pace."

"I'll bet," Right said warily.

"Well, go on then, out with it, what is its command? It... does have the control rod, doesn't it? I am awake... so it must..."

"It certainly does, right in its hand," Right said, holding up the rod in question.

"I _see_ the control rod, yet I feel... Go on. Order me to do something!" the golem said, an edge of excitement in its voice.

"What? Why?" Right asked, suspiciously.

"Oh, go on! It will be fun..."

"Fine. Attack Alistair," Right said.

"He-ey!" Alistair exclaimed, starting back.

The golem didn't move. "And... nothing? I feel nothing! I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the rod is broken."

"So... now what?" Right asked warily, thinking about the golem's apparent enjoyment of the villager's terrible fate. "You go on a killing rampage?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" the golem exclaimed. "Well... I wouldn't mind killing the birds... those evil birds and their foul droppings! I could crush them all!"

Right felt relieved. Killing birds was one thing, killing humans – and possibly dwarfs – was something else entirely.

He talked with the golem for a while longer. It was astonished to learn that he didn't have any particular plans for using it. He hadn't really thought much beyond the point of waking it. It was a _golem_ after all. No dwarf in his right mind, hearing of one free for the taking, could possibly have resisted the opportunity.

It seemed overall to approve of his lack of plans for using it; now that it had free will, it seemed intrigued by the idea of making its own choices, instead of being ordered around. He offered to let it accompany them.

"Are... you certain you want to bring that with us?" Alistair interrupted. "It could be dangerous. And _large_."

Right gave his fellow Grey Warden a disbelieving look. They'd spent over week backtracking to get the thing, and now Alistair was suggesting their just walk away from it? It was a _golem_ , as much something whose entire purpose was to fight darkspawn as the Grey Wardens themselves were.

"It's coming with us. No question," he said shortly.

"Seems like it'll be trouble. But it's your call," Alistair said.

Right bit back a sharp remark. Alistair was the one who'd abdicated all responsibility for decision making after all, leaving it all on Right's shoulders. If he didn't like Right's decisions, he should have led them himself.

"I will follow it about then... for now," the golem said agreeably. "I am called Shale, by the way."

"I am Right, pleased to meet you."

It was getting late; time for them to find a safe place to camp. They decided against camping in the village itself, though Right and Zevran made a final scavenging run through the place while Alistair tended to Sten's injuries. He'd recovered enough to walk without help as they left the village, heading back down the hill, Shale trailing along behind, enjoying its freedom to look around.

There was a sudden squawking sound behind them, cut off abruptly. They looked back, and saw Shale lifting its foot from a slick of blood, gobbets of meat, and chicken feathers.

"Oops," the golem said with false innocence.

* * *

The first major benefit to having a golem in the party was made obvious that night. Shale volunteered to take the night watches – all of them.

"I have no need to sleep. My body does not tire or do other flesh-related functions," it explained dismissively.

That was fine by Right – being able to have an uninterrupted night's sleep from now on sounded perfectly fine to him. Zevran was equally charmed by the idea, and even Sten seemed accepting, though with his silences it was hard to be sure. Only Alistair objected to the idea, not wanting to trust their safety to their newest member.

"Look, if you want to stay up all night and share the watch with shale, you're welcome to do so," Right finally said. "I plan to sleep."

"Fine. Though if we all wake up with our heads crushed by a homicidal heap of moving stone, I'm saying I told you so," Alistair spat back, then marched off into the darkness.

Right watched him go, then settled down by the fire. He looked curiously at Sten, seated nearby, busily changing the poultice and bandage on his burns.

"Why did you come to Ferelden, anyway?" he asked.

"To answer a question."

"What was the question?"

"The arishok asked, 'What is the Blight?' By his curiosity, I am now here."

"What's an arishok?"

"The one who commands the antaam – the body of the qunari."

Right frowned. "So he's your king?"

"Qunari have no kings."

"What do you have then?"

"Little patience for endless questions," Sten replied pointedly.

Right smiled. "Did you find the answer to his question?" he asked.

"A portion of it."

"Don't you have to report back, then?"

"Yes," Sten answered shortly, a slight frown crossing his face. Considering how imperturbable his expression usually was, Right wondered what had caused his expression to change.

"When are you going to do that, then?"

"Never. I cannot go home."

Right blinked. "Why not?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter now," Sten said, then rose and walked away, ending the conversation.

* * *

The golem was standing motionless, staring off into the night. Right looked it over as he approached. Its stone surface was set with clusters of crystals, some of them glittering with a muted glow, noticeable now that it was dark, many of them dark, their interior crazed with cracks. He could see there was a pattern of sockets across its stony exterior that could hold more. It reminded him of some of the things he'd found in the mage's lab. He dug into his pack, and took out some clusters of crystals, offering them to the golem.

"Could you use these?" he asked.

"I see it found some augmentation crystals! I was not aware it even knew about them. Well done!" the golem exclaimed, and instantly recruited his help in socketing the crystals into its integument, replacing the damaged set.

"So? What does it think? They don't make me look any wider, do they? I find I am already too wide as it is," the golem asked anxiously.

Right had to force back a smile. Worrying about its appearance was the _last_ thing he'd have expected out of a golem. Its manner reminded him briefly of his sister Rica. "No, no, they're quite slimming," he assured it.

The golem seemed quite pleased by his answer, and exhorted him to find more crystals for it, if he could.

"Dinner is ready," Zevran called just then. Right bade the golem good-bye – it didn't need to eat, either – and headed back over to the fire. Alistair and Sten both ate silently, lost in their own thought, but Right asked Zevran a question about what life in Antiva was like, and the garrulous elf easily filled the silence, talking about the warmth and beauty of his homeland, then segueing into his love of fine leather goods. Alistair and Sten had finished their meals by then, and gone off to their separate ways; Sten to meditate, something the qunari did for a while most evenings, and Alistair to do some maintenance on his armour.

"Is that some kind of euphemism?" Right asked suspiciously.

Zevran laughed. "It may as well be! But not this once, no. I mean the smell. For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else."

"You sound like you've been away from home forever."

"Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly," he said. He fell silent a moment, then continued, a wistful note creeping into his voice. "Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship... Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, 'Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!' More the fool I, no?"

"The job being killing me, right?"

Zevran grinned, his good humour returning. "Yes. And now here I am. One simply never knows what is to come next. How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden, a man who then spares my life? I could not."

Right blinked. "Handsome?" he said hesitantly. He'd never been called handsome before.

"Hm. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, true though it is. Do you object?"

Right paused. He didn't exactly _dislike_ being called handsome, he just wasn't at all sure he liked it, either – at least coming from another man. Perhaps if Zevran had been a foot shorter, a foot wider, and of the opposite sex... "It was just... unexpected," he said hesitantly.

"Glad I am to hear it," Zevran said, smiling. "I would not wish to upset my benefactor. Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful, and hungry for a proper meal."

"But... _you're_ the one whose been doing all the cooking," Right pointed out, bewildered.

Zevran made a face. "This slop? It is barely edible. We do not have the proper seasonings at all. Or the right ingredients. I could _kill_ for a bowl of good Antivan fish chowder!"

The elf rose to his feet, talking volubly about Antivan dishes he missed while he gathered up their dishes and headed off to clean them.

Right went off to his own bedroll, settling down to go through his own nightly routine of sharpening his sword and dagger before bed.


	18. Return to Ostagar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They set out again the next day, headed once again for Redcliffe since it was the closest of the several options they had. Trying to get back to the north proved significantly harder then their journey south to Honnleath had been; the route they had taken through the mountains to reach Honnleath was no longer a good option for getting back out of the area; heavy snows in the Frostback Mountains to the west had already closed several of the roads they'd used coming south. Worse, the hills to the north between them and Redcliffe were now swarming with darkspawn, and while the group of them could take on significant numbers of them with a reasonable hope of winning, some of the bands they spotted were large enough that the only term suitable for an attack on them would have been "suicidal". Clearly the horde had finally begun its move north from Ostagar.

They set out again the next day, headed once again for Redcliffe since it was the closest of the several options they had. Trying to get back to the north proved significantly harder then their journey south to Honnleath had been; the route they had taken through the mountains to reach Honnleath was no longer a good option for getting back out of the area; heavy snows in the Frostback Mountains to the west had already closed several of the roads they'd used coming south. Worse, the hills to the north between them and Redcliffe were now swarming with darkspawn, and while the group of them could take on significant numbers of them with a reasonable hope of winning, some of the bands they spotted were large enough that the only term suitable for an attack on them would have been "suicidal". Clearly the horde had finally begun its move north from Ostagar.

With west and north currently closed to them, they found themselves having to work their way eastwards, closer to Ostagar, slipping along behind the worst of the horde. Their only hope seemed to lie in either outdistancing the horde to the east, before heading north again, or hoping that as the horde moved north that it either spread out enough or gathered in enough to enable them to slip past without running into more darkspawn then they could reasonably handle.

A week after leaving Honnleath they found themselves on a hillside well to the east, overlooking the Imperial Highway, the ruins of Ostagar in sight just a short way to their south, seemingly deserted. Recent heavy snows had covered the ground, draping the ruins in a coat of unbroken white, hiding whatever gruesome evidence remained of the army that had perished here, and of the fort's lengthy occupation by the darkspawn.

When Alistair suggested they search the ruins, Right found himself agreeing without hesitation. It seemed just yesterday that he'd first come here with Duncan, and yet months had passed since that stormy night when Loghain had marched his army away, leaving thousands to perish at the hands of the horde.

Leaving Shale to guard their belongings at a safe distance from the ruins, Right, Alistair, Sten and Zevran headed in, Stench at their heels.

* * *

Ostagar wasn't as empty as it looked; no sooner had they picked their way in past the shambles that was all that remained of the once-neat lines of tents where the main camp had been, when they stumbled into a small group of darkspawn. They cut them down quickly, then stood listening, worried that the fight might have attracted notice. Nothing but silence.

Quietly, they worked their way deeper into the ruins, soon finding themselves in an area Right recognized; he'd attended the King's war council here, that last fateful night, and the joining ritual had been held at the far end of the broken-vaulted space.

As they picked their way eastward through the space, shapes stepped out of the shadows; darkspawn. Darkspawn smart enough and organized enough to have lain silently in wait for their prey, instead of blindly charging it. The leader of the group was immediately obvious, a hurlock striding down the ramp at the far end, dressed in bits and pieces of armour scavenged from the dead. It roared a challenge, and the darkspawn attacked.

Right charged the leader immediately, judging that its ability to co-ordinate its followers was of more danger to them then the followers themselves might be. The others followed close behind, lashing out at any darkspawn that approached too closely to their path. They cut the hurlock down first, then turned to mop up the remaining darkspawn, hewing them down, their dark blood staining the snow that lay in drifts everywhere.

Afterwards, they gathered to examine the armoured hurlock.

Alistair reached out and touched the gold-washed greaves that made up part of its armour. "I... don't know whether to laugh of cry," he said, voice a whisper of sound. "There can be no doubt... these were King Cailan's."

Right nodded in agreement. Silently, they stripped them from the corpse, not wanting to leave the King's belongings in the hands of darkspawn.

They started working their way south, towards where the King's tent had been. As they reached the foot of the ramp by what had been the quartermaster's area, swarms of darkspawn attacked out of the surrounding ruins. They were nearly overwhelmed in the first few moments, until Stench's dreadful howl frightened some of the darkspawn into pausing in their attack, flinching back, having learned during the battle what a fearsome foe the mabari hounds could be. Realizing it was only one hound, they quickly recovered and resumed their attack, but the breathing space it had bought had been enough for Right and the others to regain the offensive. In a gruelling fight that ranged over a good portion of the what had been the king's encampment, they slaughtered the darkspawn.

As they searched the bodies afterwards, stripping anything of use, Right spotted a chest half-buried in the snow where the mages had once been encamped, and was startled to remember stealing the key for it from a prisoner his first day in camp. Events afterwards had made him forget about the key until now, though it was still stashed away somewhere in one of the pouches attached to his belt. A quick search turned it up, and he opened the chest, finding it packed with a miscellany of items. The potions and bandages would be of use to them, but most of the contents were less so, being things for mages to use, not fighting men. Still, he took everything, stashing it away in his backpack; even if he couldn't use the stuff himself, he could always sell it and buy something he _could_ use instead.

They debated turning back, since the ruin was clearly still dangerously infested with darkspawn, but neither Right nor Alistair liked the idea. They'd come this far already; Duncan's campsite wasn't far away, the King's just a stone's throw beyond that. They might find more things of use here, and considering how woefully short they were getting on supplies again, any little bit helped.

Curiosity as much as anything else made Right decide for them to continue their exploration; the last he'd seen of the place had been during a storm-swept battle, as he and Alistair dashed to the Tower of Ishal. What had occurred here after he and Alistair had fired the beacon hadn't seemed real to him when he'd been told of it afterwards. And now... he wanted to see what remained with his own eyes. Had things been even a little different, had Cailan not ordered Alistair and himself to the tower, their own corpses might well have been among those here. They almost had been anyway, would have been, if not for Flemeth's unexpected rescue of them.

* * *

They found the bodies of dead mabari in the kennel area, their savagely hacked remains a clear indication of the hatred the darkspawn felt for the hounds. Stench's head and ears lowered, his stub of a tail tightly clamped to his backside, clearly disturbed by the sight. While Right was trying to soothe him they were attacked again, more darkspawn emerging from the shattered pens, accompanied by blight wolves. Once again the darkspawn were unusually well-organized in their attack, and once again they soon identified a source; another armoured hurlock, this one bearing a shield with the crest of the Theirin line on it. Cailan's shield. Alistair seemed to go mad, attacking it ferociously, beating its shield aside with his own before decapitating it entirely in one vicious swing. He stripped the shield from its arm as soon as it fell, dropping his own to the ground and replacing it with the King's shield before plunging back into the melee.

They proceeded more cautiously after that, and reached the area where the commanders had camped without further incident. There they found the remains of Duncan's campfire, now seemingly the site of some dark ritual of the horde. And nearby, the burnt tatters of King Cailan's tent. Poking around in the half-frozen ashes, they uncovered the half-burnt remains of a cot, and hidden beneath its scorched frame, a small lockbox and a sword in a battered leather sheath.

"That was... Cailan's father's sword," Alistair said quietly, touching the hilt reverently. "King Maric's sword. I'd heard Cailan liked to have it with him, as a luck piece, though he preferred to use his own."

Right nodded, picking it up and partially drawing the blade, admiring the craftsmanship of it. It took an effort of will to pass such a fine weapon to someone else, but since he rather doubted any humans they met would be pleased to see an heirloom of the Theirin line in the hands of a dwarf, he turned and offered it to Alistair. "Here. You can get better use out of this then I could," he said curtly.

Alistair's eyes widened, then he slowly unbuckled his current sword, and silently handed it to Right before buckling on King Maric's blade. Right, in turn, offered his own sword to Zevran, who happily accepted the blade, though by the avaricious gleam in his eyes as he watched Alistair testing the draw of his new weapon, he'd have far preferred receiving that blade instead.

Right tickled open the lockbox, and to his disappointment found it filled with papers instead of riches. Letters of some kind, by the look of them. He closed the box and handed it over to Alistair. They could look them over later; for now, there was more of the ruins to explore.

* * *

They continued their exploration of the ruins, encountering several other groups of darkspawn, but all of them small, and none of them being led by one of the more intelligent darkspawn. Eventually they'd finished exploring the western side, and they set off across the bridge towards the eastern side of the ruins.

It was eerie crossing the bridge, remembering that terrifying rush across it in a thunderstorm at night, giant boulders crashing down. Draped in snow and coated in a glittering layer of frost and ice crystals as it was now, it seemed hard to believe the two places could be one and the same. As they neared the centre of the span, Alistair abruptly stopped. Right followed his line of sight.

Some symbol of the darkspawn crudely hacked out of wood stood raised on a tripod of peeled logs. Pinned to it by spears thrust through his body, the frozen corpse of King Cailan gave mute evidence of the indignities he had suffered at the hands of the darkspawn, both before and after his death.

Alistair stepped closer, raised one hand momentarily as if to touch the foot of the naked figure overhead, then withdrew it. He swallowed heavily, then spoke hoarsely. "Forgive us, my King... once we've flushed the rest of the darkspawn from their holes, and bought ourselves some time, we'll be back to see you to the Maker."

Right nodded in silent agreement. He'd barely known the man, hadn't particularly liked him... but leaving him like this was an obscenity.

A dark, gloating laugh broke the silence. Spinning, they spotted a genlock at the far end of the bridge, one dressed in a regalia of leather armour and horned headdress like no other they had ever seen, a staff in one hand. It gestured, a cloud of dark energy forming around it, then laughed again as the skeletal remains of fallen soldiers nearby rose in an unnatural parody of life and charged towards them. The genlock turned and fled.

"Behind us!" Zevran spat out. Right looked back, and saw more darkspawn charging towards them from the western end of the bridge; they were bracketed.

A glow around one of the skeletons caught his eye; one of the undead was a mage. As Alistair had demonstrated during that trip out into the Wilds, it was always a good idea to take out the casters first. "Mage," he said grimly, and sprinted for the eastern end of the bridge, the others falling in behind him.

They cut down the mage, then started in on the remaining undead and the darkspawn. It quickly turned into a running battle; the entire south-eastern end of the ruins was crawling with darkspawn, including another of the armoured hurlocks, this one also a caster of some kind. They were all exhausted and battered by the time they finished killing the last one.

They took a short rest break, tending their wound and sipping from waterskins, taking a few bites of trail rations, hoping the battle had bought them at least a brief respite from further encounters, but maintaining a wary watch for the genlock mage as they did so. A necromancer, Alistair told them, explaining this was the term for a mage who could animate the dead. He frowned towards the tower afterwards.

"The Tower of Ishal," he said suddenly.

Right looked up at it as well. He remembered how the darkspawn had come flooding up out of the depths that night. That lower route must still be open, still be in use by them. They'd have to clear it out before they could take the time to tend to King Cailan's body.

"Look at these," Zevran said, walking over and dropping a pair of gold-washed plate gauntlets to the ground in front of them. "That hurlock was wearing them."

"King Cailan's," Right and Alistair said in grim unison.

* * *

The courtyard in front of the tower was teeming with more darkspawn. With practised teamwork they charged into the group, picking off a hurlock caster and then another of the armoured, intelligent ones. Closest to the tower they found themselves being attacked by a third kind of darkspawn, one Right couldn't recall encountering before; shrieks, Alistair identified them afterwards, called so for the horrifying noises they made. The creatures had an uncanny ability to hide in plain sight, making them especially dangerous foes.

They recovered another piece of Cailan's armour off of the armoured hurlock; his breastplate. It was a fine set of armour, much better then that currently worn by Alistair, and though he seemed reluctant at first, he donned it when Right and Sten pressed him to do so. As Right pointed out, it made more sense to carry it on Alistair's body then trying to fit it all in their packs. Sten also noted that it would do them a lot more good being used then being carried.

The Tower was a minor nightmare to fight through, as bad or worse then it had been when Alistair and Right had been on their way to light the beacon, though this time they were fighting their way down through the tunnels beneath it, not up to the spire. They caught a second brief glimpse of the necromancer genlock when they first entered, before he scuttled off again, leaving them to fight off an attack by a small horde of hurlocks and genlocks assisted by an ogre. It was a nasty running battle after that, clearing out the remainder of the first floor.

The gaping hole leading down to the tunnels below was still there, a harsh stink rising out of it; clearly this was the main lair of the darkspawn that haunted the ruins. They entered warily, working their way around and down, and down again, fighting off attacks by darkspawn and by the other denizens of the deep places of the earth; where they didn't find darkspawn they invariably found spiders instead, giant ones that hunted live prey in packs rather then living solitary lives waiting for food to blunder into webs as their common household cousins did.

It was late afternoon when they finally re-emerged from the tunnels, in the pass far below the ruined fortress. The pass where the King's army had fought the darkspawn, fought and died while waiting for the flanking attack that never came. Looking at the smooth snow that covered the ground now, it was hard to imagine the amount of carnage that must lie hidden under the unbroken surface.

As they rounded the base of the eastern side of the hill and entered the pass, they spotted the genlock necromancer again, at a narrow spot partway through the pass. His terrible laughter echoed as he gestured again. A mound of snow midway between them shivered, split, and dropped aside as a massive form rose to its feet; an ogre, clearly long-dead, the hilts of two weapons protruding from its half-rotted chest. Even as it shuffled around and then charged clumsily towards them, the necromancer gestured again, waking a second, smaller form from beneath the snow.

They fought like mad-men, hewing doggedly at the ogre until it fell, whatever false life had animated it fleeing again. By then a whole swarm of the smaller undead encircled them, and even as they worked on slaying those as well, the necromancer was summoning more. Right felt uneasily sure that as long as there were bodies in reach, the necromancer could send more and more against them, and the dead of two entire armies, both human and darkspawn, lay under their feet.

"The mage," he said wearily. Alistair nodded in understanding.

"Yes," agreed Sten.

Zevran said nothing, just turned and broke through the ring of undead. They charged the necromancer. He bleated once in terror, tried to summon more undead to his aid, but proved as weak to an edged weapon as all his brethren had. And when he fell, so thankfully did the remaining undead.

They stood a moment, catching their breaths, then searched his corpse. Underneath the strange horned headdress he was wearing they found King Cailan's helm. Alistair reverently wiped it clean, then settled it on his own head.

Right, meanwhile, walked over to the corpse of the ogre. Stepping up onto its broad chest, he grasped the hilts of the weapons sunk into it, and with a grunt of effort drew them forth. His eyes widened; he recognized them. Duncan's sword and dagger. Duncan must have slain this ogre, before being slain himself. His corpse might even be within a few feet of them, somewhere under the snow, unless the darkspawn had recognized it as belonging to a Grey Warden and taken it off to visit special indignities on, as they had with poor King Cailan's.

"Those are exceptionally fine weapons, my friend," Zevran observed, looking enviously at the two ruddy blades in Right's hands.

:"Yes, they are," he agreed, remembering the long walk here from Orzammar, Duncan tending them each night by the fire as Right tended his own. He remembered also Duncan's words about how he, too, had once been nothing more then a common thief. Words he would now likely never hear the story behind, from a man he wished he'd had the time to get to know better.

Silently he removed his own weapons, and replaced them with Duncan's blades. It seemed oddly fitting for him, another thief, to have them; he knew he'd think of Duncan each time he used them. For the second time in one day, he passed a sword over to Zevran.

"I am going to clank when I walk," the elf observed, and did a general re-arrangement of his own weapons.

Alistair stood by, watching, a frown on his face, then touched his fingers lightly to King Maric's blade, and didn't object to Right having laid claim to these latest weapons.

* * *

They returned to the ruins, and to King Cailan's body. Working together, Sten and Alistair got it down, grimacing with distaste as they drew out the spears that pinned him to the wood. Zevran muttered darkly about the amount of time this caring for the body of dead man was taking, but fell silent at a dark look from Right.

They carried Cailan's body away, and on a low hill overlooking the battlefield where he'd fallen, built him a pyre. They fired it, and stood for a moment in silence, watching the flames lick up around him, each lost in their own thoughts.

"We should move on," Zevran pointed out after a while, and gestured at the smoke billowing up into the cloudless sky. " _That_ shouts our presence here to any with eyes to see."

Right nodded agreement, and they set off back to where they'd left Shale and the bulk of their belongings.


	19. Road to Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The golem was where they'd left it, still watching over their belongings, the scattered bodies of a patrol of darkspawn lying dead in the snow nearby. Shale seemed pleased at their surprise that it had handled the entire patrol by itself.

The golem was where they'd left it, still watching over their belongings, the scattered bodies of a patrol of darkspawn lying dead in the snow nearby. Shale seemed pleased at their surprise that it had handled the entire patrol by itself.

They withdrew deeper into the hills and settled in for the night, opting for a cold camp due to the likely presence of more darkspawn in the vicinity. Alistair settled down at one side of the small clearing they'd selected for their campsite, his new sword in one hand, slowly twisting it from side to side, staring at it with a brooding expression. Right walked over and sat down nearby. Of their group, only he and Alistair had been at Ostagar during the battle – well, and Stench, too, but he could hardly talk to the dog about the troubling thoughts and emotions their return visit had raised in him.

"What do you need now?" Alistair asked, a hostile tone in his voice.

"I'd like to ask you something."

"If you really have to, go ahead," Alistair said shortly.

"So you said this Arl Eamon raised you?"

"Did I say that? I meant that _dogs_ raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact."

"That would explain the smell," Right said dryly.

"Well, it wasn't until I was eight that I discovered you didn't have to lick yourself clean. Old habits die hard, you know." Alistair said breezily.

"So does a horde of darkspawn, I'm told."

"Mm. Point taken," Alistair said wearily. He frowned at the sword in his hands, turning it over and over. "Let's see. How do I explain this? I'm a bastard. And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow, and put a roof over my head."

Alistair paused for a moment. When he continued, there was a wistful note in his voice. "He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. I respect the man and I don't blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"But you blamed him then, I take it?" Right asked.

"I was young, and resentful, and not very pious. Of course I blamed him! I remember screaming at him like a little child... well, I _was_ a child, so I doubt he was surprised. Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumours which pegged me as his bastard. They weren't true, but of course they existed. The arl didn't care, but _she_ did. So off I was packed off to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well... the arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

"You were probably luckier than most orphans," Right said, thinking of the cruel – and often very short – lives of orphaned Dust Town children.

"I suppose you're right. I wasn't raised as the arl's son, though, if you're picturing that. I slept in hay out in the stables, not on silk sheets," he said, and paused again before continuing, voice a near whisper. "I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother's. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything... and eventually he just... stopped coming."

"And you think the arl will help us?" Right asked, feeling uncomfortable with hearing such personal details of Alistair's life, and trying to get the subject back on track.

"I think so, yes. This news we've heard about him being sick disturbs me, though. I wonder if we won't discover that Loghain has come to the same conclusion as we have."

Zevran walked over to hand them their dinner then – some coarse biscuits and strips of jerky, the best he'd been able to come up with out of their limited remaining rations without a fire, and that ended the conversation.

* * *

Right was cleaning and sharpening his new weapons when Zevran walked over and sat down nearby, pulling out his own weapons to begin similar work on them.

"You knew the man whose weapons those were?" the elf asked curiously.

"Yes, I did," Right said, surprised. "How did you guess?"

Zevran shrugged. "The look on your face when you saw what you had in your hands. I thought at first it was just because they are very good weapons, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it must be more then just that."

Right nodded, and fell silent for a moment, thumbing a film of oil along the edge of the dagger. "His name was Duncan," he said after a while. "He was the Grey Warden who recruited me. Recruited Alistair, too." He realized he didn't want to talk about Duncan, not yet anyway, not so soon after seeing where the man had died.

"Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?" he asked Zevran abruptly, wanting to change the subject.

The assassin gave him a look, clearly understanding what he was doing, then shrugged and explained. "Well, now, I imagine that's a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living at least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?"

"You didn't choose to join the Crows?" Right asked, surprised.

"Mm? To be truthful, I didn't even know the Crows existed when I joined them. I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I'm told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end. The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die."

"And that system works?" Right asked, surprised.

"Of course! You compete against your fellow assassins, and those who survive are rightfully proud of it. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women... and men, or whatever it is you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It's a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty. But confining."

"Why didn't you just leave, then?"

"And become the next mark for some up-and-coming Crow?" Zevran asked incredulously, and shook his head. "Not likely. The only way to leave is for them to think you're dead. And even then you'd best be scarce. As for what I'll do in the future... presuming that there is one... I truly can't imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go."

"Won't the Crows eventually find you?"

"Eventually can be a very, very long time if one plays one's cards right. Come, now. Enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so," Zevran said, and bent industriously over his weapons.

Right frowned, and thought about Zevran's story. It sounded like the Crows were a lot like the Carta – once you were in, you were in for life. The only way out led to either you being dead, or a lot of other people, as Right's own escape from Beraht's control had amply demonstrated.

In some ways, he realized, he and Zevran had similar backgrounds; bad childhoods, a life in crime, and a lot of bodies in their past. Though it did sound like being an assassin in Antiva was a considerably more high-profile and lucrative job then being an enforcer in Dust Town. Still, he could understand why the other rogue had been happy to escape the life; he'd certainly been happy enough to get out of Orzammar, though the gruesome death waiting for him had been a large part of that.

* * *

The next day, they decided to try heading north again; if they couldn't get to Redcliffe this time, then it would be time to aim eastwards for the Dalish elves in the Brecilian Forest instead.

For once their luck was with them; the only darkspawn they encountered were small groups, easily slaughtered, and as they travelled north and down from the mountains they left the snows behind, walking back into late autumnal weather.

A week out from Ostagar they became aware of a huge plume of dark smoke climbing into the skies off to the north.

"Lothering," Alistair said grimly. Sten concurred.

They struck out northwest across country then, deciding that staying too near the Imperial Highway was a bad idea. Eventually they hit the West Road, and a few days later passed the side road where they'd been lured up to Zevran's ambush. Right wondered if the road was still blocked, but wasn't interested enough to detour and look.

And a couple of days after that, they finally reached the village of Redcliffe itself.


	20. The Defense of Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The closer they got to Redcliffe, the more withdrawn Alistair had been acting. He hadn't spoken at all on that final day of walking, other then a "thank you" when Zevran handed him his breakfast that morning. Right supposed it was something to do with returning to where he'd grown up; he _had_ said, after all, that he'd been raised by Arl Eamon in Redcliffe until he was ten.

The closer they got to Redcliffe, the more withdrawn Alistair had been acting. He hadn't spoken at all on that final day of walking, other then a "thank you" when Zevran handed him his breakfast that morning. Right supposed it was something to do with returning to where he'd grown up; he _had_ said, after all, that he'd been raised by Arl Eamon in Redcliffe until he was ten.

The roofs of the town were just coming into sight when Alistair abruptly stepped into his path, holding up one hand.

"Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier..."

Right stopped. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?" Alistair said, then took a deep breath and continued. "The reason he did that was because... well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my... half-brother, I suppose."

Right blinked. His half-brother? King _Cailan_? Sodding ancestors...! "Doesn't that make you the heir to the throne?"

An almost frightened look crossed Alistair's face. "Maker's breath, I hope not! I don't think so... you don't think so, do you? I'm a bastard, and nobody even knows about me. I would have told you, but... it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule and so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm sorry."

Right frowned, mind racing. That cast a whole new light on a lot of things. "Does Loghain know?" he asked abruptly, already wondering if Loghain had more then one reason to want the last of the Grey Wardens dead.

"Why wouldn't he? He was King Maric's best friend. I don't know if that means anything, though... I certainly never considered the idea that it might ever be important."

Right stared at Alistair in disbelief. The extent of the man's political naivete was appalling.

"At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it," Alistair continued.

"Are you sure? You're not hiding anything else?" Right asked grimly.

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair... no. That's it. Just the prince thing," Alistair said lightly, obviously wanting to get off the subject now that he'd told Right the vital bits.

"So I should be calling you Prince Alistair?" Right asked, not willing to drop the subject just yet, not when the possible ramifications were still racing through his mind.

Alistair paled. "No! Maker's breath, just hearing that gives me a heart attack! It's not true, anyhow... I'm the son of a commoner. It was always made clear that the throne is not in my future. And that's fine by me. No, if there's an heir to be found, it's Arl Eamon himself. He's not of royal blood, but he _is_ Cailan's uncle... and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though... if he's really as sick as we've heard... no, I don't want to think about that. I really don't. So there you have it. Now can we move on, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

"That's not _really_ what you think, is it?" Right asked slowly.

Alistair frowned. "No, I... I suppose not. I don't feel very lucky at all, to be honest," he said softly, then turned and walked away.

Right stood watching him for a moment, and shook his head. Not lucky, was he? When against all odds he'd survived the debacle at Ostagar, when since then his brother's armour and his father's sword had found their way into his hands? Right had never been the particularly religious sort, but even _he_ could see the hands of the Ancestors at work in the man's life. He glanced at their companions. Sten's expression was as inscrutable as always, and Shale seemed more concerned by the seagulls circling overhead then by the conversation of its squishy companions. Zevran also had an inscrutable look on his face, but his entire body was just about vibrating with tension; from what he'd told Right about the Antivan Crows to date, they were highly political creatures. He, too, knew that the news Alistair had tried to so lightly pass off changed _everything_.

* * *

After caching their gear and leaving Sten to watch over it, they continued down toward Redcliffe. As they approached a bridge over a small stream tumbling down the hillside towards town, they spotted a guardsman waiting on the bridge.

He called out as they approached. "I... I thought I saw travellers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?"

Right frowned. "I'm on important business. I need to see Arl Eamon."

"The arl? Then... you don't know? Has nobody out there heard?" the man asked, looking pale.

"I've heard Arl Eamon is sick, if that's what you mean."

The story the man poured out in explanation after that was appalling; the castle out of touch for ages, nightly attacks by evil creatures, the town cut off from the outside. Things had gotten so bad that they weren't expecting to survive the coming night.

"I should take you to Bann Teagan. He's all that's holding us together. He'll want to see you," the man finally said, more then a little desperation in his voice, obviously frightened that they might just turn around and leave again.

Alistair straightened at the man's words. "Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon's brother? He's here?"

"He's just over there in the chantry. Please, come..." the man begged. Alistair nodded, falling into step behind the man as he hurried away. Right and the others followed.

* * *

Bann Teagan was plainly both surprised and pleased to see them, and greeted Alistair in particular quite warmly, looking very pleased to see him. Even on brief acquaintance the man seemed no fool; Right suspected it was an equal mixture of being pleased to have reinforcements, being pleased to see someone he knew and apparently liked, and being pleased at the political potentials of Alistair's survival.

He was also smart enough to leave the long term to sort itself out, and focus on current necessities; namely survival of the coming night, and quickly delegated duties to them, sending them out to co-ordinate things with his two deputies, a man named Murdock who was the current mayor of Redcliffe, and one of his brother's knights, Ser Perth.

Murdock explained that morale was understandably low; they were short on men, short on gear, and the one man who might have done something to help with the gear, the blacksmith Owen, had locked himself in his smithy and was refusing to help. Ser Perth's men were better equipped, but equally low on morale, nervous about fighting what could only be described as the walking undead. Remembering the necromancer and its creatures at Ostagar, Right could understand their fear; seeing something obviously dead shambling towards you with intent to kill was definitely unnerving.

They spent the afternoon going around the town, trying to locate more men and better gear, in the process uncovering a spy of Loghain's at the local tavern, whom Right summarily cut down. When he suggested to the tavern keeper afterwards that the man would be better off helping to defend his neighbours then cowering in his own cellars, the man saw reason quickly, helped no doubt by the memory of the elven spy's head being separated from his shoulders.

A search of the town for gear and additional men turned up nothing more then a boy in hiding, and a dwarven merchant and his hired guards. The boy at least proved to know where a good sword could be found, and Right quickly sweet-talked it away from him. It was a decent weapon, not as good as his own but once again better then what Zevran was currently using. Wordlessly he passed it over to the elf.

Zevran smiled. "I could get used to this. Tell me, my fine dwarven friend, is there any particular reason you like showering me with gifts? Not that I'm objecting, you understand, I'm just... curious."

Right just gave him a look. The elf seemed to enjoy flirting with anything that had a pulse. And even that wasn't a hard and fast criteria; he'd even overheard the elf bantering with _Shale_ , though the golem had ended it quickly enough, making it clear that flirtation wasn't welcome, and could lead to head-crushing if Zevran persisted.

The dwarf wasn't interested in defending the town, or in sharing his goods. Right argued with him a little, but his heart just wasn't in it. He tried to convince himself that he'd given up so easily because the merchant was doing the smart thing, but part of him knew that it was because some part of him was still wrapped up in the caste system of home, and believed the merchant had the right to ignore a casteless duster like himself.

He was still feeling angry with himself when they reached the smithy. When the blacksmith refused to open the door to them, he kicked it in rather then either talking the man around, or picking the lock.

The smithy stank like a brewery, and the smith was clearly deep in his cups. He glared blearily at Right.

"You just come barging into my home? I've no money and nothing of value to take, as you can plainly see," he said, gesturing at his empty smithy. Pegs on the wall and boxes on the floor that should have held weapons and armour were all empty, an the forge was cold. "So if you're here to beat on a sad old man, then all I ask is you get on with it. I don't have much to live for as it is."

"There's no need for a beating, provided you do what I say," Right growled.

The man snorted, and crossed his arms. "What do you want, exactly?"

"So the smithy is closed?" Right asked, frowning.

Owen gestured at the room around them again. "Look around. The militia took everything they could use. I could start up the forge again, but I won't since Murdock won't listen to me."

"The militia couldn't have taken everything..." Right said.

"Everything that they could find, sure. Walked in here and took it all right off the walls."

Everything they could find? Right's frown deepened, and he took a second look at the empty room. _Too_ empty; there wasn't even as much as a worn leather strap lying around. It reminded him of a merchant who'd tried to hold out on Beraht once; he'd been too greedy, and hidden everything, rather then claiming a short shipment and only hiding some of it. The latter Beraht _might_ have believed, but the former... no.

"But did they find everything?" he mused, and walked slowly around the room, running a practised eye over the content. Empty workbenches, empty pegs, empty crates... and one crate in the corner, turned upside-down so its bottom showed. He nudged it aside with one foot, uncovering a small trap-door set in the floor. He shook his head. _Stupid_ man; if he'd left the crate the right way up it wouldn't have stood out at all.

"Leave that alone. There's nothing of interest to you none, and I don't abide thieves!" the man exclaimed.

Right knelt down, already feeling in his belt pouch for his pick locks.

"Thief! Stay away from there! That's nothing of yours!"

"You're drunk. Back off, old man," Right growled, and started to work on the lock.

"I'll show you what I do with thieves!" Owen shouted, and rushed at Right with a yell. Right sprang to his feet, and hadn't even drawn his weapons before the man fell dead, Zevran's dagger in his back. The elf shrugged, and retrieved his weapon.

Right opened the trap door, and found a large bundle of things hidden under the smith's floor – the missing armour and weapons. None in particularly good shape or of particularly good quality. He wondered how long the smith had been drinking; at a guess, for a lot longer then just since his daughter went missing. They hauled the things out to Murdock, telling him that Owen was dead but that they'd found a cache of armour and weapons. Murdock was disappointed over the quality of the stuff, but it was better then nothing.

Right took a final look through town, checking the abandoned village store for supplies. The villagers had already stripped it, apart from a few sacks of mildewed flour and some barrels of lamp oil. Nothing remotely useful remained.

* * *

They waited at the cliff top with Ser Perth and his knights, knowing the attack would come soon. Right wasn't looking forward to the fight; the knights were clearly demoralized, whispering fearfully about the coming attack. Well, they might expect to die here, but _he_ sure didn't.

It wasn't long after dark before they heard shouts of alarm from the village below, and saw a strange glowing green fog flowing towards them from the direction of the castle; a green fog that seethed with dark shapes within. Grimly, Right drew his weapons and stepped forward, Alistair and Shale moving past him to meet the attackers, Zevran and Stench falling off to either side.

As with the darkspawn, the main danger with these creatures seemed to lie in their numbers, not in their skill. It was gruesome work there on the cliff path, cutting down wave after wave of them, hacking them into pieces too small to continue fighting, their unnerving un-life still animating them long after a living man would have been dead. At least the morale of the knights revived somewhat as they saw how easily the creatures could be handled; when a messenger came pelting up from the village, shouting of a flanking attack from the waterfront, Right felt it was reasonably safe to leave the knights to hold the path while he and the others hurried down to defend the town.

It was a slaughterhouse down there, waves of undead wading into the poorly prepared, poorly trained villagers, so crowded together in front of the chantry that they were hampering each others attempts to fight off the creatures, and many of them flailing away against one or two on their own instead of making coordinated attacks of several against one. Right and his group set to work, efficiently targeting creature after creature, hacking each apart before moving on to the next. The work was slow; too slow. Militia members were falling. He saw Murdock fall, having become separated from his men and driven into a cluster of undead that made short work of him, their many swords against his one.

In desperation Right ordered Zevran to assist Alistair while he helped Shale, Stench as usual choosing his own battles. Between the two of them, Alistair and Shale managed to attract the attention of most of the remaining creatures, and with the pressure off them the militia rallied enough to be of some help in dismembering the undead.

In the end they won, the last of the creatures falling dead at their feet. A hard won victory; over half of the militia had died. But at least they'd managed to save everyone who'd taken refuge in the chantry.


	21. Deaths and Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took until mid-morning to clean up the worst of the carnage from the night before, during which time Right and his group got some much-needed rest. By the time they woke up, Sten had joined them in town, Shale having going out to replace him at guarding their gear; the golem would be at a disadvantage in the narrow corridors of a castle, and entering Castle Redcliffe in search of the Arl was to be their next step.

It took until mid-morning to clean up the worst of the carnage from the night before, during which time Right and his group got some much-needed rest. By the time they woke up, Sten had joined them in town, Shale having going out to replace him at guarding their gear; the golem would be at a disadvantage in the narrow corridors of a castle, and entering Castle Redcliffe in search of the Arl was to be their next step.

They stood by while Bann Teagan led a memorial service for the dead, and thanked them for their help. Right wished the thanks had been more then just vocal; some spending coin, or better yet some supplies would have been more useful. Afterwards Teagan asked them to join him up at the mill where they'd helped Ser Perth, then hurried off.

They followed him at a slower pace, first making a couple of necessary stops. The first was to return the borrowed sword to the young boy and his sister – she gave Right a kiss in thanks for his help, which had him grinning. They also stopped up at the tavern to see if Bella might have any additional supplies they could use, and again Right found himself being rewarded with a kiss for his efforts the night before, though unfortunately Bella hadn't turned up anything further that they could use; the place had been picked pretty clean after the weeks of isolation.

Right found himself thinking that he could get to like this whole hero thing; being praised and thanked was kind of nice. Though getting more then just a kiss would be even nicer; it was a long dry spell since his last time with someone back home in Orzammar.

Eventually they reached the cliff top, and found Bann Teagan standing there, gazing across the strait at the castle.

"Odd how quiet the castle looks from here. You would think there was nobody inside at all," he said quietly as they approached, then turned to face them. "But I shouldn't delay things further. I had a plan... to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family."

Right frowned. "Why didn't you mention this before?" he asked.

"I knew you would choose to enter the castle instead of staying in the village... and we needed warriors. I'm sorry if I..." Teagan started to explain, then abruptly broke off, staring in shock at something behind them. "Maker's breath!"

They turned, and saw an attractive, well-dressed young woman running down the path towards them, a guardsman at her heels.

"Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!" she exclaimed as she drew near.

"Isolde! You're alive! How did you...? What has happened!" Teagan asked, his expression a mix of fear and hope.

"I do not have much time to explain! I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly," she explained hurriedly. "And I... need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."

Right frowned. "Why don't we all go to the castle?" he asked.

Isolde turned and stared at Right and his group as if only just becoming aware of their presence. "What? I... who is this man, Teagan?" she asked, sounding frightened.

Alistair stirred, raised one hand to get her attention. "You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?" he asked in a reassuring tone of voice.

Her eyes widened. "Alistair? Of all the... why are _you_ here?" she asked sharply, a suspicious look on her face.

Bann Teagan interrupted. "They are Grey Wardens, Isolde. I owe them my life."

Isolde visibly composed herself. "Pardon me, I... I would exchange pleasantries, but... considering the circumstances..."

"Please, Lady Isolde... we had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!" Alistair spoke up.

"I know you need more of an explanation, but I... don't know what is safe to tell," she said, looking frightened again, and turned back to Teagan. "Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think... Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won't flee the castle. He has seen so much death! You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!"

"What about Arl Eamon? Is he still alive?" Right interjected.

"He is. He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker."

"Kept alive? Kept alive by what?" Teagan asked.

"Something the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others... were not so fortunate. It's killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village! It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help."

"Why do I get the feeling you aren't telling us everything?" Right said suspiciously.

She turned on him, eyes flashing angrily. "I... I beg your pardon! That's a rather impertinent accusation!"

"Impertinent for a dwarf, you mean?"

"No! I did not mean... that is to say, I... please, stop this! An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want from me?"

It was obvious the woman would be of little help as far as information about the castle or this unnamed 'evil' went. And while Right didn't like the idea at all, Teagan seemed determined to go back to the castle with her to try and find out what had happened to his brother and nephew. Though at least he was smart enough to be aware that it was likely a trap, and out of Isolde's hearing quietly urged the Grey Wardens to follow him in through the secret tunnel he'd spoken of. He pressed his signet ring into Alistair's hands, then hurried off with the increasingly frantic Isolde.

As soon as the two of them were out of sight, Alistair and Right hurried into the mill to look for the secret tunnel, Sten, Zev and Stench following behind.

* * *

It was a long walk through the tunnel, leading as it did down through the cliffs, across under the lake, and back up again, before finally emerging in the dungeon of the castle. Right did wonder why it didn't start somewhere further downhill, in the village itself or somewhere along the coast, instead of so far above the lake. He supposed it had something to do with the secrecy of its building, or the convenience of the mill to the outskirts of town, or some other factor related to the history of when it had been dug.

They hadn't gone far in the dungeon before they had their first encounter with the undead, finding a group of them gathered around the door of one of the cells, scrabbling through the bars as they tried to reach someone inside. The skeletal figures abandoned that and charged in a disorganized fashion towards the Grey Wardens' group, and were easily dispatched.

As they approached the cell, a voice sounded from inside. "Hello? Who's there? Is there anyone alive out there?" A man in a robe appeared at the cell door, hanging onto the bars and peered out at them. "Wait... you don't look like the arlessa's guards. Are you from outside the castle?"

"I'll ask the questions, here," Right said firmly.

"I... yes. I understand."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jowan. I'm a mage Lady Isolde hired to tutor her son, Connor. Until they, ahhh, threw me into the dungeon here."

"Lady Isolde mentioned that a mage was behind all this," Right said, realizing this must be he.

"No! I... I poisoned Arl Eamon, but that's all I did. I... I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when all that began," Jowan exclaimed, then rushed to explain further. "At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I'd done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the arl. That's the first I heard about the walking corpses. She thought I'd summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She... had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her. So they... left me to rot."

"Why did you poison Arl Eamon?"

"I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain. I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. You see, I'm a maleficar: a blood mage."

"A blood mage! Well _that_ isn't good," exclaimed Alistair.

"I dabbled in the forbidden arts, and they condemned me to death for it. I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to... redeem myself... But he's abandoned me here, hasn't he? Everything's fallen apart, and I'm responsible! I have to make it right somehow, I have to!"

Right scowled. He's heard people claim they wanted to make things right before; usually from people who'd discovered, too late, that no, they couldn't pull a fast one on Beraht or the Carta. Easy enough to plead repentance once you'd been caught. Better not to have misstepped in the first place.

"But why did the arlessa need a mage to tutor her son?" Right asked, puzzled by that aspect of the whole mess.

"Connor had started to show... signs. Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training."

"Connor? A mage? I can't believe it!" Alistair exclaimed.

"She sought an apostate, a mage outside the Circle, to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea."

"Why would Isolde be frightened of her son becoming a mage?" Right asked. He knew very little about mages, beyond the little Alistair or the others had said in passing.

"Because he would be taken away. Forever. A mage cannot inherit a title, even the son of a powerful arl. She is also a pious woman. Her son having magic was... humiliating."

"How much magic did you teach Connor?"

"Some. But he's still very young. He can barely cast a minor spell-never mind something more powerful. At least, not intentionally. I have thought about it, and it's possible Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil. With the Veil to the Fade torn, spirits and demons could infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill, and create those walking corpses."

"I see. I think I understand." Right said hesitantly.

"I never meant for it to end like this! I swear! Let me help you fix this," Jowan begged.

"I say kill the mage. He cannot be trusted." Sten said forcefully.

"He doesn't need to _die_ , surely..." Alistair said hesitantly.

"Give me a chance, please!" Jowan begged.

Right frowned. Once again the hard decisions were being left on his shoulders. He couldn't see releasing the mage, not when he'd confessed to the poisoning of the Arl. He liked even less the idea of leaving him alive behind them; one thing he and Leske had always fervently agreed on after an incident in their early partnership was that leaving enemies alive behind you was a Bad Idea, and by everything he'd ever heard, blood mages were about as bad as it got when it came to mages.

"I can't leave you here alive," he said abruptly.

"I understand, and... I accept it. Do... do what you have to," Jowan said, and stepped closer to the bars.

Right wasn't sure if he was moving closer to make it easier, or to get in range to make a last-ditch attempt to cast some spell on Right and the others; he didn't wait to find out, either. His dagger was in Jowan's heart before the mage had even stopped moving.

"I hereby execute you for your crimes," he said, watching the mage's body slump to the floor.

* * *

They worked their way up from the dungeons afterwards, encountering clusters of undead everywhere, as well as shades like those they'd encountered in the cellar in Honnleath, and some starving mabari who attacked them and had to be put down. At one point they found their way blocked by a door that neither Right nor Zevran could unlock, and had to detour down into the basements to finally find a route out into the castle courtyard. The place was swarming with more undead, and it was a hard-fought battle to reach the level that controlled the portcullis, so that they could let in Ser Perth and his men. After that the mopping up went quickly, and it wasn't long before they worked their way to the great hall, where they finally located Bann Teagan, Isolde, and Connor, accompanied by several guardsman by frighteningly blank expressions on their faces.

Bann Teagan was capering around like a fool, watched by the boy, who was clapping his hands in delight, his mother standing by with a long-suffering expression on her face as she watched her brother-in-law turn flips and dance around.

Right frowned when he saw the empty expression on Bann Teagan's face; the man didn't even seem aware of their presence.

The boy became aware of their approach, and gestured for Teagan to stop his capering.

"So these are our visitors? The ones you told me about, Mother?" he asked.

"Y-yes, Connor," she replied, sounding frightened.

"And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?"

"Yes."

"And now it's staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can't see it well enough."

"This is a dwarf, Connor. You... you've seen dwarves before. We've had them here at the castle..."

"Had them? For dinner, maybe. Looks like a tough chew, maybe in a nice stew. Shall I send it to the kitchen, Mother?"

"C-Connor, I beg you, don't hurt anyone!" she begged, in a genuinely terrified voice.

For a moment the unpleasant scowl on Connor's face faded. "M-Mother? What... what's happening? Where am I?" he asked, sounding like a normal, frightened boy.

Isolde dropped to her knees at his side, a look of relief washing over her face. "Oh, thank the Maker! Connor! Connor, can you hear me?"

As suddenly as it had left, the scowl returned. The boy pushed his mother violently away. "Get away from me, fool woman! You are beginning to bore me."

"Maker's breath! What has happened here?" Ser Perth exclaimed in a low undertone.

Isolde, meanwhile, had scrambled back to her feet. She gave Right and Alistair a pleading look. "Grey Wardens... please don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!"

Right frowned. "So _he_ is the evil force you spoke of." he said, angry at the woman for not having told them more earlier.

"No, don't say that!" she exclaimed. "Connor didn't mean to do this! It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon- he started all this! _He_ summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!"

"It was a fair deal!" Connor interrupted – or more accurately, the demon that was controlling him, Right supposed. "Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

"Nobody tells him what to do! Nobody! Ha-ha!" Teagan laughed, a vapid expression on his face.

"Quiet, uncle. I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn't I? Yes, I did," Connor snapped at him, then turned his attention back to Right. "But let's keep things civil. This man will have the audience he seeks. Tell us... what have you come here for?"

"I came to stop you," Right said grimly.

"I'm not finished playing! You can't make me stop! I think it's trying to spoil my fun, Mother!" the boy exclaimed. Teagan rose to his feet, he and the guardsmen drawing their weapons at plunging at the interlopers, while Isolde shrieked in fear and dove for a corner. Connor disappeared during the frantic melee that followed.

"Don't kill Teagan!" Alistair exclaimed as they fought against the sudden onslaught of soldiers.

Right swore under his breath, wondering how they were supposed to manage _that_. Thankfully Zevran solved the problem for them, popping up behind the Bann and expertly coshing him with the pommel end of his dagger, before turning back to the grim work of dealing with the bespelled guardsman.

Once they'd downed the last one, Isolde flew out of her corner, running over to Teagan's side. "Teagan! Teagan, are you all right?" she exclaimed as she patted at his doublet.

Teagan groaned and slowly sat up. "I am... better now, I think. My mind is my own again."

"Blessed Andraste! I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!" she exclaimed, as she helped him to his feet. She turned to look at Right and Alistair. "Please! Connor's not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!"

"You knew about this all along," Right said accusingly.

"I... yes. I didn't tell you because I believed we could help him. I still do."

"I do not know if we can save him. Demons do not listen to reason," Teagan said unhappily.

"He is not always the demon you saw. Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!" she exclaimed frantically.

Teagan's expression hardened. "Isn't that what started this? You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret... to protect him."

"If they discovered Connor had magic, then they'd take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then..." she exclaimed, sounding more then a little hysterical.

"Where is Connor now? Why did he run?" Right asked. He'd had just about enough of this brain-addled female.

"I think he ran upstairs, to the family quarters," Teagan said quietly.

"Violence... scares him. I know that sounds strange. He may have run up to his room, or..." Isolde interjected.

"Or he might be waiting in ambush?" Right interrupted.

"I don't know. The fighting may have scared Connor into... coming out again, and so he ran." she explained.

"So you're saying he may be vulnerable?" Teagan asked, exchanging a significant look with Right.

"I... perhaps. Is there... is there no other way?" she asked, voice a near whisper now.

"What are our options?" Right asked tiredly.

"I wouldn't normally suggest slaying a child, but... he's an abomination. I'm not sure there's any choice," Alistair said grimly.

"No! What... what about the mage? He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him!" Isolde exclaimed.

"No, you can't. He's dead." Right said, regretting now that he'd slain the mage. The cell or his fear of the undead roaming the castle had held him until now, it might well have held him a little longer. Too late for that now. It was sounding more and more as if there was only one choice they could take.

"Can we do nothing else?" Isolde whimpered. "So that is it, then? You are actually going to... go up there and kill my son?"

"I need some time to consider," Right said abruptly. He's rushed into the decision with the mage and now regretted it; he would take more time with this one.

"Whatever you do, do it quickly. There is not much time before Connor... does something else." Isolde whispered.

Right nodded and turned away. He would go speak to the boy, he decided. Perhaps his mother was right, and there was enough of the boy left to save. If not... if not, Right would do what was necessary. He led his small group off towards the family quarters, wishing once more that the weight of leadership hadn't fallen on his shoulders.

* * *

They encountered more undead on the way up; suits of armour that sprang to unnatural life as they passed, dead inhabitants of the castle that contested their approach to the upper levels where the family quarters were. Alistair had never been up here as a child, or if he had been had no memories of it, so he was of no use in guiding them to the Arl's rooms. They had to search the place room by room, clearing out undead as they explored, until they finally stumbled across the family quarters.

Connor crouched in a huddle in the middle of the carpet, abandoned toys scattered around him. He looked up as they approached, his face that of a frightened child, the demon temporarily gone.

"Go away. She won't like you being here. She'll just try to hurt you," he whispered, frightened.

"I'm not afraid of being hurt," Right said gently.

"I know. I think the scary lady is afraid of you. She says you'll ruin everything. I can't hear her now, but she's never very far," he said, then bit at his lip before continuing anxiously. "I tried to stop her but I can't. She said she'd help Father. I didn't think she'd hurt everyone, honestly I didn't."

"Do you know what she is, Connor?"

"She's a bad person. I heard her in my dreams, and then she was everywhere."

"She's not a person. She's a demon," Right corrected him.

"Sometimes she's nice," Connor said wistfully, then looked away. "She says she just wants to help me. But then she gets very mean. Demons are liars."

"I... want to stop her but I don't want to hurt you," Right said hesitantly.

"But _somebody_ has to stop her from hurting anyone else!" the boy exclaimed worriedly.

"There has to be another way!" Right said, liking less and less the idea of killing the boy.

The boy rose to his feet. "I don't know how much longer she'll be gone for, but she's always watching. She won't let you near Father," he said, voice turning grim. "She'll just come back again, and then... Just tell everyone to stay away, especially Mother. I don't want her to see me like this."

Right swallowed. "Then I suppose I have no choice." he said.

"At least nobody will be hurt anymore, and maybe Father can be helped. That's all I wanted. Just... just do it, then," the boy said bravely, lifting his chin.

"Close your eyes, Connor," Right said hoarsely. He couldn't do it with the boy looking at him.

Connor closed his eyes, stood waiting for the knife. Right hesitated... and the boy's eyes snapped open again. The demon had re-awoken. "You'll never win! You'll never take him. He's mine!" it screamed.

The boy cried out, fell to his knees. A change rippled over him, and what rose from the ground was no longer a child, but a demon, just like the one that had possessed Amalia.

It attacked them, and with no other choice, they attacked in turn. It was a vicious battle, the demon being considerably stronger then the one they'd encountered in Honnleath; that one had been locked away in the cellar for decades, with access to only the energy of one small cat and one young girl. This one was fat with power after the many deaths it had caused in the castle and village, and spent its energies at a furious pace as it fought to kill them, reanimating more undead to aid it in its battle.

They were all feeling battered and bruised before it finally gave a despairing wail and sunk to the floor, its energies spent. As it abandoned Connor his normal form returned. Right crouched down, felt for a pulse. The boy was still alive.

The door to the room flew open, and a distraught Isolde rushed in. "Stop! Stop! Don't hurt him!" she cried, dropping to the ground at his side and shielding him from them. "Please, have mercy on him! He's just a boy! He doesn't deserve this!" she wailed hysterically.

"You would rather the demon keep your family hostage?" Right asked grimly.

"I... no, of course not, but... this is my son's life! There must be another option! The Circle must know some spell, or... we could bring him to the cathedral in Denerim! They could exorcise him!" she exclaimed frantically. "Maker help me, there must be some other way! _Don't kill my baby, I'm begging you_!"

Right wished he could agree, but... he thought of all the deaths the demon had already caused. He thought of how brave the boy had been, acknowledging his mistake and knowing that the only sure way to end this was his own death. Taking him to Denerim would take days; days in which the demon could regain strength, return, and attempt to escape, likely causing even further deaths. Worse, Denerim was firmly in the control of Teryn Loghain; if the man was willing to stoop to poison to remove Connor's father, what reason did they have to think he hesitate to see that the boy didn't survive either?

"Move aside. We _must_ destroy the demon." he told her.

"No, it doesn't have to be this way! I know what's at stake, but you can't tell me it's worth his life!" she begged. "What... what if he was your son? Surely, you would move mountains to save him!"

Stupid, _stupid_ woman. Didn't she understand that it was her efforts to save her son so far that had led to this horror in the first place? Every thing she'd done since had only worsened the situation. Her son must take after his father, not her; he got his bravery from somewhere, and it certainly wasn't from this craven fool.

"This needs to end – now." Right said grimly, and took a certain degree of satisfaction in knocking the women out to prevent further protests. Bad enough that he had to kill her son; he couldn't possibly do it with her hanging on his arm, begging him not to.

And it wasn't a job he could leave to any of the others, either. His decision – his responsibility to carry it out. He knelt down, touched the boy's cheek for a moment, fixing in his head the memory of how bravely Connor had stood there, all but asking outright to be killed to prevent the demon from doing further harm to anyone. "Ancestor's guide you," he whispered, and killed him.

* * *

It was a subdued group that assembled in Arl Eamon's chamber.

"So it is over," Teagan said quietly. "Connor is dead and the demon gone with him. With its creatures vanquished, the castle is back under our control. I thought I'd never see my brother again."

"My son, your nephew, is dead. Do not forget that in your great relief, Teagan," Isolde said bitterly.

"How could I, my lady? Eamon has much to mourn, if he recuperates," Teagan said. "But our task is not done yet. Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life... but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him."

"The Urn! The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!" Isolde urged.

"Isn't there some other way to heal him? What about magic?" Right asked.

Teagan shook his head regretfully. "It has been tried and we will continue trying... Perhaps the demon's absence will make a difference. However, the relic is another option."

Right frowned in thought as Isolde, Teagan and the others discussed the Urn. He didn't understand this religion of the surfacers, or why they thought the ashes of some long-dead woman might heal the Arl.

He thought of Connor, of the boy's final wishes, that no one else would be hurt, and that his father might be helped. He knew that he should concentrate on defeating the darkspawn as his first priority, but... the boy. He owed it to Connor.

"I will see if I can find this relic," he said abruptly, ending the discussion.

Teagan looked relieved. "No one else can. Even if I wished to do it myself, I cannot abandon Redcliffe to its own devices. Perhaps you could seek out the brother's home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think."

Right nodded. He made his excuses as soon as he reasonably could afterwards. Teagan offered to house them in the castle that night, but Right turned him down; he couldn't stand being in the place. They'd need to return the next day, for instructions on how to locate Brother Genitivi's house, for good maps so that they wouldn't get lost again, for whatever supplies the castle could spare, but for tonight, he needed out of here.

He suspected Isolde was just as happy that they'd turned down the offer as well; she would never forgive them for what they'd had to do, and never admit that it had been the necessary thing.


	22. Anger and Anguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time they'd reached a decent spot to camp in the woods nearby, it was full night. Right just wanted to climb into a hole and pull the hole closed behind him, exhausted by the events of the last two days. But they'd barely set foot into the clearing before Alistair was pulling him off to one side, a grim expression on his face.

By the time they'd reached a decent spot to camp in the woods nearby, it was full night. Right just wanted to climb into a hole and pull the hole closed behind him, exhausted by the events of the last two days. But they'd barely set foot into the clearing before Alistair was pulling him off to one side, a grim expression on his face.

"Now that we're back at the camp, I want to talk about what happened. At Redcliffe," he said, his voice clipped, an expression of anger on his face.

"I don't want to discuss it right now," Right told him.

"We're at camp. Is there a better time to discuss it than right now? I don't think so. You killed Connor. You _killed_ him. A little boy. How could you do that?"

"I didn't enjoy it, Alistair," Right said bitterly.

"I'm not saying you did. But there must have been something else that you could have done. Something. Anything that didn't involve killing a child!"

Right stared at Alistair, for a moment rendered speechless. Sodding Ancestors, it had been _Alistair_ who'd suggested it as the necessary option in the first place! Where did he get off, making a fuss about Right having followed through on _his_ suggestion!

"This is the arl's son we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?" Alistair continued.

"I don't really care what he says," Right grated out. Oh, he got it now. Alistair was more worried about Arl Eamon's reaction to the death of his son then to the fact that they'd _ended_ the threat posed by Connor's possession; ended it in the only way open to them, as distasteful as it had been.

Alistair, meanwhile was continuing his sermonizing, oblivious to Right's rising anger. "I just don't know how you could do it, how you could make that decision. I owe the arl more than this," he said, shaking his head.

"Deal with it. I don't really care what you think," Right grated out. Leaving all the decisions to Right to make, then whining and moaning when he didn't like the decisions Right made? Oh, no, no way was Right putting up with _this_ sort of nug shit from him.

"No, I can see that. You don't care what anyone thinks," Alistair said coldly. "Enough. I don't want to say any more. I've said too much as it is. We've still got plenty to do, and we should do it."

He turned and stalked away. Right had to fight back a strong urge to take advantage of the easy target his back presented; he was seeing red, literally shaking with rage over Alistair's words.

He turned and walked blindly away, sure that if he laid eyes on Alistair again before morning, he'd do something they'd both regret.

* * *

He heard footsteps approaching, near silently, but with just enough careful scuffing to warn him that someone was there; Zevran. Only the elf had to make a point of making enough noise not to startle him, none of the others could move with the silence a talented rogue possessed, and even he would have been hard-pressed to match the silence that the assassin could manage, his own career having relied more on in-your-face violence then sneaking around unobtrusively.

He found a plate of food being held in front his his face. He grunted his thanks, accepting it, and started shovelling the food in, not particularly caring what it was nor how it tasted. He expected Zevran to leave again, but instead the elf sunk down nearby, resting his chin on arms crossed over top of his knees, not talking, not looking at Right, just... _there_.

After a while Right put side the now-empty plate. "Do you actually enjoy being an assassin?" he asked quietly.

Zevran shrugged. "And why not? There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva. You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part, well... some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?"

"You've never killed an innocent?"

"Now there's an interesting word, 'innocent.' How many men do you know who can claim to be truly innocent? But if you're talking generalities, such as children and relatives and bystanders and such... never on purpose, but it happens. It's unfortunate, but death comes to us all. If not me, then some wasting disease. Or a fall down the stairs. Or at the hands of a darkspawn. It's all relative in the end."

Right nodded. "I suppose that's true," he said slowly.

"'Death happens,' as we like to say. And when I get paid for it, death happens more often," Zevran continued. "As far as enjoying the act of killing itself, why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands."

Right frowned. Tearing his thought away from Connor, he thought back to all his years as an enforcer for Beraht. "I know what you mean," he reluctantly agreed.

"There are many things I did not enjoy about being a Crow, of course. Having no choice, being treated as an expendable commodity, the rules... oh so many rules! But simply being an assassin? I like it just fine. I will continue to do it, if I can, even if I am not a Crow. Honestly, could you picture me doing something else?"

"Don't you have any other skills?" Right asked curiously.

"None that I wouldn't get into trouble for performing publicly," Zevran said, chuckling softly. "Of course all these thoughts are moot. Chances are still good that you and I will perish, eaten by darkspawn or slain by the Crows at some point. Very gruesomely, I imagine."

Right grunted agreement, and fell silent again. They sat that way for a while longer. Eventually Zevran rose to his feet, stepping over to retrieve the plate. He paused, touched Right's shoulder lightly for a moment, then left without saying anything further.

Right returned to his brooding, feeling obscurely comforted.


	23. Denerim Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They stopped by the castle the next morning to talk with Bann Teagan before leaving for Denerim. He had the promised maps for them, as well as directions on how to locate Brother Genitivi's house, and a letter of introduction for when they did find the man. As well, he had supplies for them; the castle had always been well stocked, and with most of its inhabitants dead at the hands of the demon, it had not suffered from shortages like the village had when both became isolated by the demon. Even after sending a large portion of the castle's supplies to relieve the town until merchants could resume their regular travels to and from Redcliffe, he'd had more then enough left to resupply them handsomely.

They stopped by the castle the next morning to talk with Bann Teagan before leaving for Denerim. He had the promised maps for them, as well as directions on how to locate Brother Genitivi's house, and a letter of introduction for when they did find the man. As well, he had supplies for them; the castle had always been well stocked, and with most of its inhabitants dead at the hands of the demon, it had not suffered from shortages like the village had when both became isolated by the demon. Even after sending a large portion of the castle's supplies to relieve the town until merchants could resume their regular travels to and from Redcliffe, he'd had more then enough left to resupply them handsomely.

A few merchants had already come in, ones that had been in hiding in the immediate area and had quickly heard the news of the defeat of the undead. Right was pleased to spot Bodahn and Sandal among them; the merchant seemed equally happy to see him.

"We'll be heading back to Denerim to resupply after this," he told Right. "I don't suppose you're going that way?"

After making sure there was no one close enough to overhear, Right quietly admitted that he was.

"Excellent, excellent. Perhaps we'll see each other on the road again then. Which reminds me, I picked up some things that might be useful to you and your boys," he said, and led the way over to his almost empty cart. "Tents!" he said proudly, pointing to some rolls of canvas stacked up in one corner. "I said to myself, 'Bohdan, those Grey Wardens have saved your life at least twice now – once at Lothering, and once here, not to mention however many darkspawn they've cleared from your path – you owe them.' So I thought about what might be of use to you that I could get. There's not much in the way of supplies to be had at the moment, but this is a fishing town – they've got sail makers, which means canvas goods. So I took a look around and found these."

"That's very good of you, Bodahn, but I don't think we can carry those..." Right started to say, frowning. The rolls were large and heavy, and would weigh almost as much as their current backpacks did.

"Oh, no, no, me and the boy will carry them on the cart for you, so any night we meet you in camp you'll have them. It's the least we could do!"

Right suppressed a smile at the offer. The wily merchant was making sure they had a reason to maintain a pace that didn't outdistance him and his son; well, Right was fine with that, as long as the merchant didn't dawdle along the way. Being able to sleep under canvas, especially with the cold winter weather moving in, would be worth keeping their pace to something the merchant could maintain. More, the merchant knew the roads, and where good camp spots might be found. His advice would be welcome. Right readily agreed.

* * *

It was a long, slow trip to Denerim. They had to detour well to the north to bypass Lothering, which now lay in the hands of the darkspawn. Signs of depredation where everywhere; more then once they come across the sad remains of some less skilled or less lucky traveller, once an entire caravan that had been wiped out by a large war band. The darkspawn were still picking over the tumbled contents of the carts when they arrived; they grimly set to work killing them off before continuing their journey.

When they were fighting was the only time Alistair and Right spent any time in each other's company any more. During the day Alistair would lag behind the rest of them, staying in sight but clearly separating himself from the group. At night, in camp, he and Right stayed as far from each other as they could. At all times, they avoided speaking to each other; there was too much anger on both sides.

Right distracted himself from his own dark thoughts each night by sparring with Sten and Zevran. Fighting Sten made him think of the couple of times they'd encountered ogres; the man was just so big, and even when he was using a well-padded stave instead of his sword, his attacks were something you most earnestly wanted to avoid connecting with. Zevran, having a much broader experience then Right did, proved an able teacher of the agile fighting style they both shared, and they soon fell into the habit of Zev coaching him during his bouts with Sten, then afterwards teaching him the moves he needed to learn to avoid, divert or take advantage of the attacks Sten had used that night. Then they'd finish up with an intense sparring match between the two rogues, until both were exhausted. Zevran refused to use blunted weapons for those, but his skill level and control were so much more then Right's that he never did more then lightly touch Right with his weapons, just enough to leave a shallow, stinging cut or painful pinprick behind. Right, on his part, couldn't seem to land a touch on the other rogue at all.

Which, he found himself thinking, made it even stranger how easily he'd defeated Zevran when they'd first encountered him. He doubted the elf would answer a direct question about that; he seemed to have a knack for diverting serious questions off into amusing anecdotes or overblown flattery instead. But each night after sparring, while they were doing the nightly maintenance of their gear, Right would cajole Zevran into speaking more of his life as an Antivan Crow. He was sure the elf would reveal some clue to the answer sooner or later; he just had to be persistent.

* * *

When they finally reached Denerim, the decision of who to bring into town with him was easy. It certainly couldn't be Alistair; even if the two of them had not been at odds, Loghain _knew_ what Alistair looked like, and presumably had his men keeping an eye out for the errant Grey Warden. True, he'd also met Right, but that had only been once, and Loghain had been distracted at the time by his argument with King Cailan. And unlike Alistair, Right wasn't someone with the potential to claim the throne that Loghain's daughter was currently ensconced upon. It would be much easier for him to slip in and out of the city unnoticed then for Alistair to do the same.

Alistair and the overly memorable Shale were left outside the city to guard their gear, while Right, Sten, Zevran and Stench went in to try to locate Brother Genitivi, or at least some clue as to where he might be found.

* * *

Right stared around as they made their way through the city to the market. He'd heard that Denerim was big, but he'd never imagined just _how_ big; Orzammar, from the Diamond Quarter on down to Dust Town, could have been dropped in the place and barely made a splash.

The crowds and noise made him uneasy; there were just too many people, and most of them far too tall, though he did spot a surprising number of dwarfs about. Apparently the population of surfacer dwarfs was much higher then he'd ever been led to believe. There was also a fair number of elves around, most of them seeming to be shabbily dressed, performing menial tasks. Even the more well-dressed among them appeared to be superior servants at best, dressed in livery, not finely clothed merchants and sensibly-dressed craftsmen like the dwarfs he saw.

Sten seemed undisturbed by the teeming crowds, and most people gave his sinister form a wide berth. Zevran, for his part, seemed at ease in the city, enjoying the bustle, commenting with scathing wit on the dress, manners and possible morals of those around them, thankfully in a quiet enough voice that only his companions heard. He seemed to have a particularly low opinion of the city elves, which Right found rather odd considering that he technically was one. He guessed there must be some major difference between being a city elf, and an elf from a city, and made note to raise the question with Zevran some time.

His fingers itched when they finally entered the marketplace. So many fine things on display; and sadly, so many attentive guards standing around watching it all. It didn't help that their funds were getting woefully low; he'd have happily supplemented their income with a little petty pilfering otherwise.

As they crossed the market towards where Brother Genitivi's house was supposed to be, a knight accosted them, stepping forward and their blocking their path.

"I recognize you – you were at Ostagar! Duncan's apprentice..." the man growled in a low voice, his scowl deepening. He continued, his voice thick with contempt. "You killed my friend, and good King Cailan. I demand satisfaction, Ser!"

"Satisfaction?" Right asked, unfamiliar with the term, at least in this context.

The man quickly made it clear that he was demanding a fight; a fight to the death.

Right felt annoyed. He didn't want to attract any attention to himself, and fighting this large, heavily armoured man in the middle of the market would surely do that. On the other hand, if he didn't do something about him, the man would undoubtedly inform the guards that one of the Grey Wardens was in the city. Then the man suggested they fight in the alley way behind the Gnawed Noble tavern; nicely out of sight of the guards. Right wondered if the man planned something treacherous, but readily agreed; best to deal with him now.

They went behind the tavern, and after a brief exchange of words, mainly introductions so they knew who they each faced, drew their weapons and began. The man – Ser Landry by name – was a good fighter, but clearly hadn't fought seriosuly in a while, perhaps not since Ostagar itself, while Right had been doing nothing but travelling and fighting lately, and was both well hardened and well in practise. He easily avoided the worst of the man's attacks, taking damage only when he had to, and slipping blow after blow in past the man's shield. He felt almost surprised when the fight was over, Ser Landry's body motionless on the cobblestones at his feet, beginning to get the first glimmerings of how much he'd improved since leaving Orzammar.

Leaving the man's body to be cleared away by the friends who'd accompanied him as witnesses, they headed back towards the main part of the market, and Brother Genitivi's house.

* * *

A dark-haired young man let them into the house.

"Yes? What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Brother Genitivi, I presume?" Right asked hesitantly. The man seemed awfully young compared to everything he'd heard about the adventurous Brother.

"No. No, I am Weylon, Brother Genitivi's assistant," the man explained, then frowned. "When you first came in I was... was hoping that you had news of Brother Genitivi – wishful thinking, it seems."

"Has something happened to Brother Genitivi?" Right asked.

"I am afraid something has happened. Genitivi's research into the Urn may have led him into danger," Weylon explained.

"Why would searching for the Urn lead him into danger?"

"Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason. I pray for Genitivi's safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. I-I tried to send help, but some knights came from Redcliffe looking for him not long ago. I sent them after Genitivi and they too have disappeared."

"Where did you send them?" Right asked.

"No, don't ask me where they went. You'll go after them, and what if ill-luck should befall you, too? This search is a curse on all of us. Some things are not meant to be found. I know that now."

"Just tell me before I lose my patience!" Right exclaimed, scowling.

"All right, all right! All he said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area."

"What exactly was he investigating?"

"I don't know. All I discovered from going through his research was that he was staying at the inn."

"Very well. I will head to the inn immediately," Right said.

"Good luck. May you find the answers you seek," Weylon said, sounding relieved.

Right and the others left.

"Do you believe what he said?" Zevran asked neutrally.

Right snorted. "No. He was too nervous. I think we should come back after dark, and do a little discrete poking around."

Zevran grinned, pulling a pair of his daggers out and twirling them once before re-sheathing them.

* * *

They drifted around the marketplace, looking but not touching, having several hours to kill until nightfall. Right temporarily amused himself by asking impertinent questions of some of the priestesses at the neighbouring chantry, while Stench nosed around making friends with the local street urchins. They were heading back towards the main part of the market when a tall red-haired man hissed and waved discretely to catch Right's attention.

"Hello there, Warden. I'm a... _friend,_ " he said quietly. "I've heard you're putting up the good fight against Loghain and Howe, right? Good for you. Maker spit on all those arrogant noble bastards. I've also heard you have certain... skills. 'Skills of the street' you might say. No judgements here, mate. I want to help you."

"Who are you?" Right asked suspiciously.

"The name is Slim Couldry, and if you've heard of me, I've been doing a sad job of it, haven't I?" he answered, and winked. "I hear a great many things. And for those who view certain pesky laws as mere nuisances, there's some ripe fruit to be plucked out there. I can point the way. All I ask is for a little slice for myself."

A-ha... he might not know the name, but Right certainly recognized the type. He knew it well from back in Dust Town; someone who made a living by spotting opportunities and then passing them on – for a suitable fee of course – to those who had the skills to take advantage of them. He relaxed, and smiled slowly. The problem of their woefully thin wallet might be about to correct itself.

"Tell me more. I'm interested," he said, keeping his voice equally low. Not whispering, of course, whispers drew notice, just... two men, chatting quietly.

In exchange for some of his remaining coin, Slim filled him in on the details of a lucrative opportunity, which he happily availed himself of. One possible lead led to another, and by the time the sky started dimming towards evening, his wallet was considerably fatter then it had been, with the delightful added bonus that most of the jobs had stung either Loghain or his allies in some way.

They stopped in at the Gnawed Noble tavern for a while to each and drink and wait for things to quiet down outside. Right was pleased to pick up some additional job leads there as well, though most of them he'd have to follow up on at a later date; right now, the most pressing business was finding Brother Genitivi, and following up on whatever leads he might have that could lead to the Urn.

As they sat back relaxing after their meal, Right remembered something he'd noticed in the Wonders of Thedas store earlier that day and picked up – picked up as in actually paid money for it, at that. Riffling through his pack, he took out the slender volume and slid it across the table to Sten.

"I, err... thought you might like this," he said.

Sten sat staring down at it for a long moment, face utterly frozen, then slowly reached out and touched the embossed leather cover. "Qunari prayers for the dead," he said softly, and looked up to stare at Right. "Where did you get this?"

"Bought it earlier today. I thought... I thought you might want it. For those farmers."

Sten sat at stared at him for a while, then slowly picked up the book and made it disappear into one of his pockets.

"You are not quite as callow as I thought," he said. "That is... unexpected."

"Callow? You thought I was _callow_?" Right asked, surprised.

"You sound surprised. You must have heard this before," Sten replied calmly. "You'll get over it. Eventually."

"So will you tell me now why you were caged?" Right asked, deciding a subject change was in order. And maybe this time, Sten would actually give him an answer.

"I caged myself. A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware," Sten said.

Right was surprised; it was the closest to a direct answer that he'd ever been able to pry out of the man, since that initial conversation when he'd still been caged, and weakened by hunger and thirst. "Are you saying you put yourself in that cage?" he asked after puzzling over the qunari's words for a moment.

"I know that my failures were my own. I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad – my brothers – to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad," he said and paused. "They came from everywhere: The earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harboured the darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, too late. I fell."

"What happened to the other qunari?" Right asked softly.

"I am told no others survived. I don't know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead, nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I woke, I was no longer among my brothers. And my sword was gone from my hand."

"What did you do?"

"I searched for it. And when that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it."

"And then?"

Sten looked down. His hands flexed, clenching into fists then loosening again. "I killed them. With my bare hands."

He looked up quickly, meeting Right's eyes. For the first time, right saw a change in the set expression he usually maintained. "I did. I knew they didn't have the blade. They had no reason to lie to me. I panicked. Unthinking, I struck them down."

"That's terrible!"

"I know. I cannot justify what I have done. My honour is forfeit. That sword was made for my hand alone. I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath."

"Couldn't you search for it?"

"If I knew where to look, it would be in my hand now."

"Where did you fight the darkspawn?"

"Near Lake Calenhad."

Right nodded. They'd be headed back that way sooner or later, and probably sooner as so far it was the only tip they had about Brother Genitivi's whereabouts; that he'd been headed for an inn near the lake.

"Don't worry, we'll find it," he assured Sten.

"Perhaps those words are empty, but... thank you all the same."

* * *

Once it was late enough, they left the inn and headed across the street to Brother Genitivi's house. It only took a moment's work to tickle open the lock on the front door, then the four slipped inside, Sten and Stench waiting silently just inside the door while Right and Zevran cat-footed their way further in.

They ghosted around the main room first, checking the long work table for papers, journals, anything that might confirm what Weylon had told them earlier, and finding nothing.

Right had seen into the nearest side room when they were in the house earlier; a spartanly furnished, simple bedroom with a small work table, which he guessed was most likely Weylon's room. Which meant the door at the far end of the room probably led to Brother Genitivi's quarters.

He was just about to open the door when Weylon stepped out of his room, and stopped, gaping at the pair of them. "W-what are you doing?" he demanded, then frowned as he realized they'd been about to open the door. "You're not supposed to go in there!" he exclaimed, and rushed the two men.

Right tried to just knock the poor fool out, as Zevran had done to Bann Teagan, but even as the flat of his sword connected with the man's head, he knew he'd misjudged the blow; it connected all-too-solidly with Weylon's temple, and he dropped to the floor in a boneless manner that made it all too clear that he was no longer among the living.

Right muttered a curse. Zevran gave him a look. "Remind me some time to teach you how to do that properly," he said dryly, then stepped past Right, opening the door and stepping into the adjoining room.

Right stepped in behind him, and both came to an abrupt stop. There was a nasty smell in the room; sweetish, with a distinct edge of corruption. Zevran stepped over to a blanket-draped form on the floor, and lifted it, revealing a second dark-haired young man, lying in a dried-up puddle of his own blood. He was at least a couple of days dead, if Right was any judge.

"The real Weylon, I presume," Zevran said, before dropping the blanket back over the motionless form.

"Suddenly I'm feeling a lot less bad about having killed that other guy, whomever he was," Right said.

A quick search of the room turned up a journal of Brother Genitivi's – and in the last entry, he _did_ mention plans of visiting an inn along the shore of Lake Calenhad, near the docks that led to the tower where the Circle of Magi were based.

They left, re-locking the door behind them on their way out, then headed back out of the city. The city gates were locked for the night, of course, but it wasn't that hard to find a place where they could get up over the wall and away.


	24. Blowups Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They left the Denerim area by the North Road, skirting the coastlands as they made their way back west towards the northern reaches of Lake Calenhad, where Kinloch Hold – the great tower of the Circle of the Magi – was located. The Inn of the Spoiled Princess, the last known destination of Brother Genitivi, was located on the shore near the tower.

They left the Denerim area by the North Road, skirting the coastlands as they made their way back west towards the northern reaches of Lake Calenhad, where Kinloch Hold – the great tower of the Circle of the Magi – was located. The Inn of the Spoiled Princess, the last known destination of Brother Genitivi, was located on the shore near the tower.

Alistair continued to maintain his separation from the rest of the group, made even easier now that they were in lands where the darkspawn had yet to intrude; with no darkspawn, there were no battles bringing the group back together, however temporarily. As Alistair lagged further and further behind each passing day, Right started to wonder if a day would come when he'd just... not show up at camp. Leave.

As much as he'd come to loathe the man's very presence, the thought made him uneasy.

* * *

Right checked the maps he'd been given by Bann Teagan, and consulted with Sten and Zevran, who both had considerably more experience with reading the pesky things then he did. They agreed that the narrow dirt road winding off into the hills to the south matched the last known destination of Company Easthill, a militia group from the Redcliffe area that had not been heard from in some time. Right had accepted a job from the Redcliffe chantry to try and find out what had become of the group, if he happened to be in the right area.

It shouldn't add more then a day to their travel to detour south into the hills and check; the North Road curved up to the north here to skirt around the steep hills that the narrow dirt track headed up into. Technically the track was actually the shorter path, but it was also harder, having several steep slopes along its route that would be tiring to climb, and would be difficult at best for ox carts. They stopped for lunch – and to allow Alistair and the two dwarven merchants to catch up and be told of the change in route – then Right and his group headed off along the narrow track, Bodahn and Sandal continuing westwards and promising to meet them for the night where the dirt road rejoined the main road. If not this night, then the next; Right wasn't sure how long it would take them to find any sign of the missing militia group.

By mid-afternoon they were high up in the hills. Sten gestured at circling flocks of birds ahead. "We approach a battlefield," he stated.

The next turn of the road brought it into view; a large meadow to either side of the road, littered with bodies and odds and ends of gear, dead for long enough that most of the corpses had been picked clean by local wildlife. While Sten and Shale kept watch, and Alistair watched them disapprovingly, Right and Zevran set to work checking what remained for any sign as to which side had died here; the militia company, or whatever enemy they'd encountered. Right found a few keepsakes that might serve to identify the dead – trinkets, mainly, and one soldier's diary – and put them aside in his pack to deliver to the chantry when they returned to Redcliffe.

A shout from Sten alerted them to the approach of a large pack of wolves, undoubtedly attracted to the easy pickings of the battle field, and not adverse to adding some fresher meat to their diet. They hurriedly grouped together, slashing and stabbing at the wolves that attacked them again and again, until the last lay dead. Then they became aware of another predator; a huge bear rose from behind a pile of rocks in the middle of the meadow, where it had presumably been resting after filling its belly with carrion. It, too, had to be cut down.

They took a last hurried pass around the meadow, then continued their trip, heading down out of the hills to meet up with the merchants and make camp.

* * *

"I think we need to talk. Right now," Alistair said, stepping in front of Right and blocking his way.

Right looked up at him. It had been a long, hard day, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk with Alistair. "Get out of my way, Alistair," he grated.

"No. I'm not going to get out of your way. I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. You're a Grey Warden. I know you weren't one for very long before Duncan and the rest were all killed, but that didn't mean you stopped being one. And I'm sick of the mockery you're turning it into. _You_ , a Grey Warden? Duncan would have been disgusted."

"What _exactly_ is your issue, Alistair?" Right asked tiredly.

"What exactly is my issue! I'm sorry, did you think I was deaf as well as blind? You think I don't know what you've been up to? Give me some credit. There's so much at stake, and you're just in it for yourself, aren't you? Unbelievable."

"Go fall on something sharp. I don't care what you think," Right spat. And it was true; he'd stopped caring about Alistair's opinions the night Alistair blamed him for Connor's death.

" _Big_ surprise. Do you care what anyone thinks? Not unless they can do something for you, I'm sure. Has it occurred to you that you might be part of something larger? That the Grey Wardens might be a tradition worthy of upholding, even if you don't care about all the lives you're saving?"

"Who said I didn't care about saving lives?" Right demanded, affronted.

"Y-e-e-e-s, because your motivations are clearly driven by your regard for others," Alistair snapped. "With a Grey Warden like you, who needs darkspawn? I guess I'll have to be satisfied with you actually helping to stop the Blight, won't I? If that's still your intention. I can't do it on my own."

Right saw red. The next thing he knew, he'd launched himself at the much taller man, landing a punch on his jaw that, combined with his body cannon-balling into Alistair's chest, knocked him over backwards. He stood over Alistair, hands fisted, seething with fury.

"On your _own_? I'd be happy if you helped at all!" Right exploded. "You self-righteous arsehole! I was willing to make some allowances for you right after Ostagar, I figured sooner or later you'd get back to normal and start _leading_ us again, but did you? No! You've left every hard decision since on _my_ shoulders, then whined and ranted when you didn't like the choices I made."

Alistair scowled and tried to sit up. Right shoved him back down again with his foot. " _I'm not finished_ ," he snapped."By the ancestors..! It was _you_ who suggested that we might have to kill Connor in the first place! Do you think it was _easy_? Do you think I _enjoyed_ it? If there'd been any other reasonable option then killing him, don't you think I'd have _tried_ it?"

"We could have gone for help to the Circle of Magi..." Alistair interrupted angrily, once more struggling to sit up, irritably pushing Right's foot away when he tried to shove him down again.

Right froze for a moment, staring at him, appalled, then exploded. " _Then why didn't you say so_ _ **then**_!" he shouted, wound up, and punched the man so hard that he fell over backwards again, out cold.

Right stood there a long moment, flexing his aching hand, fighting back the urge to continue hitting him, or worse, to draw his knives and use them. Finally he managed to get his rage under enough control to turn and walk away instead, away from the fire, away from the watching eyes and listening ears of their companions.

* * *

"You throw a mean punch, my friend," a voice said out of the darkness.

"Zevran," Right said tiredly, acknowledging the elf's presence.

Zevran stepped closer, and dropped down to crouch at Right's side. He picked up the hand Right had punched Alistair with, and gently turned it over, looking at the bruised and skinned knuckles. Right winced, then hissed as Zevran gently moved each finger in turn. "I don't think you've broken it," Zevran said softly. "Though undoubtedly it will hurt for several days to come – as will Alistair's jaw. There are easier places to hit a man, you know. Easier on you, anyway, though not necessarily on him."

Right snorted. "Yeah, I know... I was just so _angry_..."

Zevran said nothing, just settled back on his haunches, watching Right, listening.

"I never had to lead before," Right said after a while. "I was just another cog in Beraht's machine, one good at grinding up obstructions. Leske and I – we were a team. Equals. We made decisions _together_ , you know?"

Zevran nodded encouragingly.

"Then all this... before the battle at Ostagar, Alistair took me and a couple other new recruits into the Kocari Wilds, on a quest for... on a quest. He did a _good_ job leading us, getting us all to work as team – I _liked_ him, could imagine myself getting to know him better, and Duncan and the other Grey Wardens, and probably liking them too. And then there was the battle, and it all fell apart. Suddenly Alistair and I were the only Grey Wardens left alive in all of Ferelden, and I hadn't even been a real one for more then a day. And instead of picking up the reins and carrying on... he left it all on _me,_ " Right said bitterly. "Every. Single. _Rotten_. Decision!"

"Do you truly think you've done that bad a job?" Zevran asked.

Right fell silent a while, thinking. Absently he pulled out his offhand dagger, started stabbing it into the earth beside him, over and over again. "No," he said after a while. "There _are_ things I could probably have done better, or at least... differently. Things that if I'd known more at the time, I _would_ have done differently. I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life second-guessing Connor's death. Like, what if I hadn't killed that blood mage in the dungeon; what if I'd left him alive, or brought him with us; or if not him, maybe that Witch that Alistair and I started out with, maybe if she'd still been with us _she_ might have known something we could try. Even what Alistair said, tonight – that we could have tried to get help from the Circle of Magi..."

Zevran reached out, covering his left hand with his, stilling it. "You're going to ruin your dagger like that," he said dryly.

Right snorted, but checked the blade carefully and wiped it clean before resheathing it. "Do you ever regret the things you've done in the past?" he asked.

"Yes, sometimes. Though I more often regret the things I _didn't_ do. So I try to do as many things as possible so I'll have less to regret later, when I am old and grey."

Right felt a slight smile twitching at his lips. "Are you never serious?"

"Of course, my friend! _Deadly_ serious, when I must be, but thankfully this is not such a moment. Come, it is cold and dark out here, let us go back to camp."

"I'd rather not. I... don't feel like facing other people right now." Right said.

"That is okay. I thought as much. Come, you will see," he said, rising to his feet.

Right hesitated, then rose as well, having a feeling that the elf wouldn't leave him alone out here. The two walked back towards the clearing. When they were almost there, but still within the shadows of the trees and underbrush encircling it, Zevran stopped. "You see?" he said quietly, gesturing to where Right's bedroll waited, spread out under a tree, a covered plate and a wineskin nearby, separated from the clearing by a screening row of bushes.

"Thank you," Right said gruffly, and dropped down to sit on his bedroll. He didn't think he could eat, then the odour of the food reached him and he found himself reaching for the plate anyway. Zevran settled down nearby, sprawled out on the grass, and watched while Right ate and drank.

"Feeling better now?" he asked once Right was done.

"Yeah, a little. Thank you," Right said.

Zevran nodded, and picked up the plate, then returned to the campfire, leaving Right on his own.


	25. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was silent during breakfast the next morning. After returning their tents to Bodahn's waggon, they set out again.

Everyone was silent during breakfast the next morning. After returning their tents to Bodahn's waggon, they set out again.

Noticing Alistair starting to drop back again, Right turned and faced him, his hands resting on his hips near his sheathed weapons. "No." he said.

Alistair lifted his head and looked at him, wincing slightly as the movement pulled on the skin of his darkly bruised chin. "What?"

"I said _no_. No more dropping back and acting like you're not with us. You're either one of this group, or you're not. I look back, I better see you no more then five paces behind me, or I better not see you at all. Got it?"

Alistair's jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. "Got it," he said, voice clipped, and moved a few steps forward, stopping pretty much exactly five paces away, his own hand unconsciously moving to rest on the pommel of his sword.

Right bit back the urge to say anything further, turned, and walked away. He could hear Alistair's boots scuffing along the road behind him, feel the man's glare on the back of his neck. It made his shoulder blades itch, and he found himself tensing up, as if he expected a knife in the back at any moment.

It was not a comfortable way to travel.

By the time they stopped for lunch, he was already developing sore muscles from the constant tension; by that night's camp, it was a raging headache, which combined with his lingering anger over the harsh words exchanged the night before had him feeling touchy and irritated. As soon as he'd finished eating – everyone, even Zevran, remaining uncharacteristically silent during the meal – he withdrew to the shadowed eaves of the forest.

Somehow he wasn't surprised when Zevran sought him out later that evening, a wineskin in hand. Of everyone in the group, the elf came the closest to being a true friend. Oh, he liked Sten well enough, and talking with Shale could be interesting, when the golem wasn't going out of its way to be annoying, but Zevran was the one he had the most in common with.

"How is your headache?" Zevran asked, dangling the wineskin in front of him.

"Horrible. How'd you know I have one?" he asked, reaching up to take the wineskin. He pried out the stopple, and squeezed a stream of wine into his mouth, grimacing at the sour taste.

"How could I not? Your neck and shoulders have been stiff enough all day to almost give _me_ a headache just from watching you. I doubt it has improved your temper."

"It hasn't," Right admitted, taking a second gulp of the wine before handing the skin back to Zevran.

Zevran took a drink as well, then hung the strap of the wine skin over a branch of the tree Right was sitting under. "Move forward a little," he said.

"Why?"

"Trust me. Just do it," he said cajolingly.

Right sighed, and slid further away from the tree. Zevran stepped behind him, then knelt down. "Take off your shirt," he ordered.

Right craned his head around to look suspiciously at Zevran. "What are you up to?"

"A massage. Staying stiff like that is bad for you. Bad for the muscles, bad for your headache, bad for your temper. And if you are not thinking straight because you are angry and sore, that is bad for the rest of us too, yes? So, off with the shirt."

Right grumbled, but slowly started unfastening his armour. As he peeled out of it, Zevran took it and put it to one side, then produced a small vial from a belt pouch, and anointed his hands with the contents. "Oil," he said, seeing Right craning around to see what he was up to. "It makes many things go better. Now, stop twisting around like that – which is also bad for your back – and just let me do this."

Right faced forward again, feeling himself tense up even more as Zevran's hands settled down on his shoulders. The elf's hands set to work, kneading and rubbing at the stiffly knotted muscles, fingertips digging in to some spots, gliding soothingly over others. Right was surprised to feel the tension ebbing away, melting beneath Zevran's expert touch. As his muscles relaxed, so did his mind, until he was drifting on the edge of sleep, mind empty of all thoughts except for how good the massage felt.

He felt Zevran moving away from behind him, hands gently pushing him down and over to lie on his side, something under his head. His shirt, he thought vaguely, smelling the leathery scent of it. "Sleep, my friend," he heard Zevran say quietly, and was out like a light.

* * *

Alistair looked up as Zevran walked back to the fireside, a hostile look on his face. "Having fun seducing our glorious leader?" he asked.

Zevran stopped and looked at him, then smiled slightly. "Not that it would be any of your business if I _did_ happen to seduce him – which, sadly, was not the case. No, I was merely making sure that he would be able to sleep well tonight," Zevran said.

"Why so concerned for his comfort?" Alistair asked. "You were trying to kill him just a few weeks ago."

"And now I am not. He is our leader – I would prefer he be making decisions while at his best, not when tired and cranky. One cranky person in our group is more then enough," Zevran added, giving Alistair a look.

"Ooo, _zing_!" Alistair said, making an exaggerated wince. "That really hurt, you know."

"Somehow I doubt that," Zevran said dryly. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do," he said, and went off to play fetch with Stench for a while.

* * *

Alistair brooded over the fire long after everyone else – except for Shale, of course – had gone to sleep, either in their tents, or in their bedrolls elsewhere.

Every time his thoughts returned to _that dwarf_ and his actions since Ostagar, he felt his emotions boiling over. But every time he tried to convince himself that all the problems lay with Right, he remembered the dwarf's accusation that it had been him that had foisted the leadership off on Right – and that it was because of what _he_ had or hadn't said that Connor was dead.

He tried to remember the exact conversation they'd had with Isolde and Teagan when they'd first found out that Connor had become an abomination. He squirmed when he realized the dwarf had been right about one thing – it _had_ been him that had first suggested that they might have no choice except to kill the boy. But... he hadn't really expected anyone to take it seriously, had he? He'd raised it because it _needed_ to be raised, so they could dismiss the idea and come up with alternatives... Sure, yes, if there had been absolutely no other choice, no other way to prevent more deaths being caused by the demon, they'd have _had_ to...

But they'd had other choices... hadn't they?

The more he thought about it, the more sickened he felt. And the more he realized that the only alternatives he could remember were all ones he hadn't thought of until long _after_ Connor was dead.

He didn't get much sleep that night. None, in fact.


	26. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the trip to Lake Calenhad passed uneventfully. During the day, Alistair stayed with the group, doggedly maintaining the five pace distance between himself and Right. At night, the two of them were back to maintaining their distance from each other. It seemed to Right that whenever he looked around, no matter what he was doing, Alistair was watching him, face expressionless. Talking with Shale, playing with Stench, sparring with Sten – at all times he could feel Alistair's eyes on him. Just watching.

The rest of the trip to Lake Calenhad passed uneventfully. During the day, Alistair stayed with the group, doggedly maintaining the five pace distance between himself and Right. At night, the two of them were back to maintaining their distance from each other. It seemed to Right that whenever he looked around, no matter what he was doing, Alistair was watching him, face expressionless. Talking with Shale, playing with Stench, sparring with Sten – at all times he could feel Alistair's eyes on him. Just watching.

He ended every day a bundle of nerves and knots. His sparring matches with Zevran grew longer and considerably more vicious, as he took out his continuing anger in action, and fought until he was exhausted enough to have some hope of sleeping. He still found it near-impossible to get a touch in on the assassin, but by the grin on Zevran's face he knew it was at least becoming a challenge for the elf to continue evading his blades. Lesser opponents wouldn't have a chance.

As before, they'd spend some time caring for their weapons afterwards, but most nights now Zevran insisted on giving him a massage afterwards, until he finally drifted off to sleep. He was hesitant to accept them at first, but had to admit he slept a lot better, and woke feeling a lot less sore, when he allowed the elf to do so. And, for all the flirtatiousness he delighted in indulging in when in conversation, Zevran kept his touch strictly impersonal when working the knots out of Right's back.

When they finally reached the vicinity of the Inn it was late evening. They left Shale to set up camp while Right, Alistair, Sten and Zevran went down to the lakeside to speak to the innkeeper.

The lake was just coming into sight when Sten abruptly stopped. "Here," he said. "We camped near hear."

Right stopped as well, and looked around. "Do you remember exactly where?"

Sten stood a moment in thought, then turned and march off the trail to the south. It wasn't long until they came to a small clearing, the unburied bones of the Beresaad lying in the grass around the scattered remains of a fire pit. To their surprise, there was a man there, grubbing around in the dirt among the bones and rags of tattered skin and cloth. He looked up and saw them, and jumped to his feet.

"Back off, I was here first!" he cried.

"You haven't seen a sword lying around here, have you?" Right asked.

"Why, you looking to buy one?" the man asked suspiciously, giving them a look as if judging the net value of what they were wearing and how much they could likely afford.

"Only if it's a qunari blade."

"A cue-what?" the man asked, looking puzzled.

"The giants you're pillaging," Right explained patiently.

"Oh. _Them_. To tell the truth, this place was mostly picked clean when I got here. I got part of a glove the wolves didn't chew too badly, though! I think it was a glove, anyway... I know. Don't say it. I got cheated. I knew the guy who was here before me. He sold me this spot. Said he'd found giants and all kinds of crazy valuables," he explained, then spat and made a disgusted expression. "He didn't mention that he'd taken everything but the bones and the dirt already. His name's Faryn. Squirrelly little bastard, if you ask me. Which you didn't. But I said it anyway."

"Where is he now?"

"He was going to Orzammar, he said. I imagine he's gotten there by now. If you find him, tell him I sent you! It'll scare the piss out of him!"

Right nodded, doubting that mention of this elderly scavenger's name would scare anyone, and took a final look around the clearing, then glanced at Sten. Sten was staring at the bones of his brethern, his face frozen in an even more set expression then usual. He followed wordlessly when Right turned and led the way back to the road. Right paused when they got there. "Sure you don't want to take the time to bury them or something?" he asked softly.

"No." Sten said, a note of finality in his voice that made it clear he was unwilling to discuss the subject.

They continued on to the Inn in silence.

* * *

Right leaned against the bar, chatting with the Innkeeper. It had been easy enough to get the man talking – just a simple question about the odd name of the place, The Spoiled Princess. He waited until the man was relaxed, in the swing of answering questions, before finally bringing up Brother Genitivi's name.

"Brother Geni – no... no, of course not. I've never heard of him." the Innkeeper said, paling slightly.

"What about knights from Redcliffe? Have you seen any?"

"No, no... I haven't seen any knights," he answered quickly, looking even more disturbed.

"You seem nervous," Right said quietly.

"Why would I be nervous?" the Innkeeper said, then lowered his voice. "Listen, the person you're looking for _isn't here_. You should be on your way as soon as possible."

"Are you in some trouble? You can trust me," Right said persuasively,dropping his voice to a quiet undertone.

The man was visibly sweating now. His voice dropped even further, quiet enough that even Right could barely make out the words, his lips barely moving. "Th-they're watching me. I can't speak openly... _don't_! Don't look around, and keep your voice down. They're looking for anyone asking for this Brother Genitivi. They told me to act like nothing's wrong, and just deny ever having seen the brother, or the knights."

"Who are these people watching you?" Right asked, voice equally low, the movement of his lips obscured as he raised his mug for another sip of the ale within.

"I don't know. You should be on your guard, and leave quickly. I don't know what happened to the knights, but I doubt it was anything good."

"Thank you. I'll be careful," Right said, and put down his empty mug, slipping an extra sovereign under it in thanks for the warning.

He walked back over to where the rest of his group was waiting, and quietly warned them to stay alert. They quickly finished off their drinks, and then headed outside.

Whomever was watching the innkeeper must have become suspicious of Right's conversation with him, and had excellent communications; they hadn't gone far from the inn when figures rose from the surrounding grass and bushes, and they found themselves the subject of an attempted ambush. The darkness made the fight seem even more chaotic then was usual, unseen arrows hissing past them, swords and bodies only visible from the glint of moonlight on metal. It made Right doubly glad of all those late-evening sparring matches with Sten and Zevran; he was _used_ to fighting in bad lighting. As were Sten and Zevran; it wasn't long until the last of their attackers fell to the ground, bow falling free from lax hands.

They checked the bodies, finding nothing to identify them at first, until Zevran hissed. "Here, this one – he seemed to be the leader," Zevran said, and extracted a wad of folded parchment from a belt pouch. "Papers," he said smugly.

Right nodded, and they resumed their interrupted trip back to their camp sight.

Right paused at the top of the hill, and turned to look back out over the lake, at the nearby tower where the Circle of Magi lived. He knew he'd have to come back here at some point – one of the treaties Alistair was carrying was for the Circle – but not now. Not yet.

"What are you looking at?" Zevran asked, stopping beside him and following his line of sight.

"A missed alternative," Right said heavily, and turned away.

* * *

They puzzled over the papers once they were back in camp. Most of them were carefully anonymous, but one appeared to be a letter from a wife or sweetheart, and had a line about "when you return home to Haven". They consulted their maps, and eventually found it marked, a tiny hamlet buried high in the Frostback mountains.

"South via Redcliffe, or north past Orzammar?" Zevran asked, brushing his finger lightly along the two possible routes around the lake.

"North," Right said decisively. "The weather should be better and we can look into this Faryn character that may have Sten's sword. Or does anyone have any objections?" he asked, pointedly looking directly at Alistair.

Alistair met his eyes. "None," he said, voice glacial.


	27. Wild Goose Chases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling of his tent, thinking. Even after a massage from Zevran the night before, he hadn't slept well, his dreams haunted by memories of a young boy's face, chin lifted, trying to be brave, and of an enigmatic tower, rising darkly from a moonlight-spangled lake.

Right lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling of his tent, thinking. Even after a massage from Zevran the night before, he hadn't slept well, his dreams haunted by memories of a young boy's face, chin lifted, trying to be brave, and of an enigmatic tower, rising darkly from a moonlight-spangled lake.

Missed alternatives. He wondered how many things he would have done differently – not just for Connor, but everywhere – if only he'd been more aware of what other choices he might have had. He knew so little of this surface land, so little of its people, its customs, its history, its possibilities. And that ignorance, as much as anything, had been what had killed Connor. He'd been stupid, not to ask more questions about the situation before acting. Doubly stupid, for assuming his ignorance was the same as a lack of options.

Stupid he couldn't fix; ignorance, he could. Sitting up, he reached over and hooked a finger through the strap of his backpack, dragging it closer, and went rooting around in it. Stuffed in a capacious exterior pocket he finally found what he was looking for, a double handful of books he'd picked up in various places in their travels. An odd mix of subjects. Travelogues, many written by the very Brother Genitivi they were searching for. One volume of a multi-volume history of Ferelden. A geography of Thedas. A treatise on the hierarchy of the Chantry. An assortment of books from cheap pamphlets to richly bound leather volumes, containing songs or stories from all over Thedas.

He picked up one such story, lightly running his fingers over the well-worn sueded leather cover. He felt a little guilty about stealing this one, actually; one of the few times he'd ever felt bad about his pilfering. It was from Connor's room at Redcliffe Castle, and judging by its dog-eared condition, had been a favourite of the boy. The story of Aveline, Knight of Orlais. He set it aside to read another day; for now it was history he needed to read. History, and about magic and mages, and geography, and politics...

He sorted the books into stacks, then returned most of them to his pack, settling back to read his first selection by the dawn light filtering through the canvas walls of his tent.

* * *

He woke early every morning from then on, and as soon as the light penetrating his tent became bright enough to read by, poured over the volumes in his possession. He checked with Bodahn to see if the merchant had any other books as well, and bought everything he had. Which wasn't much, mainly a few books that Right himself had earlier bartered away to him for goods, and which Bodahn hadn't been able to find a customer for yet.

There was snow on the ground more often then not now, even this far north, and it only worsened as they climbed up into the mountains via Gerlen's Pass. Travelling further south to reach Haven was going to be a nasty journey; and at that their planned approach was bringing them from the less difficult direction, the lands south of the lake by now being firmly in the grip of winter.

Bodahn had already let Right know that he and Sandal would not be joining them on that particular leg of their trip – there was no profit for the two of them in the snow-locked mountains – but would instead be restocking in Orzammar, then heading back east again, working his way south through the Bannorn and eventually back around to Redcliffe again. "Perhaps we'll see you there," he said.

* * *

It felt distinctly strange to be approaching the gates of Orzammar again. He'd only ever seen them once, and that briefly, when he had left the city with Duncan. And yet some part of him looked at the surrounding tree-clad slopes, the harsh stone peaks rising again the sky, and knew this was _home_. Everywhere he saw the work of dwarven hands; blocky road-markers half-buried in the snow, a weather-worn statue of a paragon, name long worn away, to one side of the road; an arch topped with delicate metal work crossing over the roadway itself.

He was so busy looking at all the things that he almost missed seeing the people blocking the road ahead of them; only did because he heard Zevran make an irritated noise, and looked to see what had the elf's attention.

"Why have we stopped?" Sten asked, then fell silent as he too caught sight of the group ahead of them, spreading out across the road in a fashion that made it clear they were not just going to stand idly by while Right and his group continued up the road.

"Bounty hunters," Zevran said.

The group suddenly drew weapons and charged toward them. In back of the pack, an eerie glow began to rise.

"Mage!" Right spat, as much curse as warning and order. He and Zevran dodged around the pack of men, heading for the woman in back, while Alistair and Sten barrelled directly into them, keeping them too busy to protect the woman who was the greater danger, Stench circling the melee and doing his bit to harass the enemy.

Magical energies hissed and crackled. For a moment a corona of blue lightning sparkled off every buckle, rivet and clasp on the rogues' armour, making Right thankful that they were dressed mainly in leather, not plate; even just that limited exposure to the mage's attack had his limbs quivering with pain. He couldn't begin to imagine how much worse it would have been if the two of them had been fully encased in metal. And he was also thankful that his and Zevran's headlong rush had opened enough of a gap between them and their two warrior companions that the arching energies had only affected the two of them.

Zevran reached the woman first, giving her a stunning blow to the head, Right a step behind, weapons sinking into her torso to pierce heart and lungs. She fell, blood gushing from her mouth, no longer a danger to anyone.

Part of the group had turned and followed them when they'd passed them by; they had a nasty few minutes fighting them off until Alistair, Sten and Stench reached them and gave the men something else to worry about.

Right gulped air after the fight, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. It seemed unusually hard to catch his breath again; he'd heard that could happen, if you spent too long down in the low-lands; there was something different about the air. Once he had enough breath back to do so, he cursed voluminously and in detail; the bounty hunters, Loghain, and the price he'd put on their heads.

"I should be taking notes," Zevran observed after a while. "I have never even heard some of these words before."

That drew a laugh out of Right. He straightened, gave the bodies a contemptuous look, and turned back towards the city. "Come on," he said. "Let's get this over with, I want to be back down the pass to where we left Shale and our things before dark."

A brisk fifteen minutes walk brought them out in the small surfacer market just outside of the Orzammar gates. Right paused for a long moment, just staring at the gates into the city, longing to enter, to find out what had become of Leske and Rica in the long months of his absence. But – he'd promised himself that he'd do what he could for Connor's father. They didn't have _time_ , and he was already wasting a day of travel as it was, just to come to the market and see about Sten's sword.

A few questions quickly led them to the human they sought, a shifty-eyed fellow off to one side. He was crouched over a crate, rooting through the contents, as they approached.

"Maker's breath," he exclaimed, eyes widening, as he became aware of Sten looming over him. He hurriedly rose to his feet. "You, uh... startled me." he said. "Can I help you?

"You're Faryn, aren't you? We're looking for a qunari sword," Right explained.

"My sword. Where is my sword?" Sten demanded.

"I, ah... I don't know what you mean, Ser," the man said hesitantly.

"I'd give it to him if I were you, Faryn," Right said warningly.

"I don't have it! I swear by Andraste's knickers, I sold it on the way here."

"Who did you sell it to?"

"A dwarf near Redcliffe... Dwyn, I think his name was."

Right bit back a curse. He remembered Dwyn – the dwarf merchant holed up in a house with a couple of guards. "Dwyn? I know him" he said, disgust edging his voice. If only they'd known _then_ that the dwarf had Sten's sword... well, they'd be back at Redcliffe sooner or later. Hopefully Dwyn would still be there, and would still have the sword.

"He's the one who has the sword, I promise ya! Said he was a collector," Faryn hurriedly explained.

Right felt at least a little relieved; if Dwyn truly _was_ a collector, it was less likely he'd sell the sword on to yet another person. Still, it also meant this entire detour had been a waste of time.

He looked uphill at the gates one last time, then turned his back and led the way back down the pass.


	28. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a long, hard journey south through the mountains to Haven. They passed through Sulcher's Pass again on the way, now heavily snowed in, and Right found himself wondering if the merchant who'd given them Shale's control rod had ever found his mule, or seen his elven servant again. There was no sign of him or his cart left in the pass, so he was at least reasonably confident that the merchant himself had gotten away from the area safely.

It was a long, hard journey south through the mountains to Haven. They passed through Sulcher's Pass again on the way, now heavily snowed in, and Right found himself wondering if the merchant who'd given them Shale's control rod had ever found his mule, or seen his elven servant again. There was no sign of him or his cart left in the pass, so he was at least reasonably confident that the merchant himself had gotten away from the area safely.

Their camps were nowhere near as comfortable as they'd been when travelling in company with Bodahn and Sandal; they'd left all but the largest of the canvas tents with the merchant and his adopted son, and that one tent had to be shared by four people and one very large dog, huddling together for heat. Shale continued its habit of taking all the night watches, being impervious to extremes of temperature as it was.

It had taken them a while to work out an arrangement that allowed them all to fit inside the tent with a minimum of elbows in ribs and feet in faces. Right would enter first, lying crosswise at the far end of the tent, then Sten would follow, taking up one side of the tent, his head by Right's. Alistair would then slide in feet-first, taking the opposite side, with his head at the door. Zevran, who never stopped complaining about how bitterly cold it was, and what was an intelligent young Antivan like him doing travelling through the back-country mountains of Ferelden in winter anyway, would then squirm in between the two, head by Right, his feet ending up somewhere around Alistair's shoulders. Stench would come in last of all, his hindquarters serving as a pillow for Alistair while he rested his own head over Sten's ankles, and then Alistair would lace the flaps shut, shutting them in for the night.

They talked, sometimes, lying there in the dark, waiting for the tent to warm up enough for their shivering to stop, but most often they just lay silently, listening to the wind outside, or the hiss of snow against canvas.

Even when they talked, Alistair mainly stayed silent, only speaking when spoken to, and then responding in as few words as possible. His taciturn mood reminded Right of Sten, before Sten had finally begun to open up to him. Though the further into the mountains they'd travelled, the more withdrawn Sten, too, had become of late.

* * *

When they first caught sight of Haven, Right found himself thinking it was aptly named. It was a small village, nestled on the shores of a lake set in an ancient volcanic caldera. A volcano that was still at least partially active; there was enough geothermal activity in the area that the caldera was largely free of snow. Compared to the surrounding mountainous terrain, it was definitely a haven of warmth, and its position well off from any regular route through the mountains gave it an isolation that likely made it much safer to live in then villages in more well-travelled areas.

The approach to the village was up a steep slope, the blown-out lip of the volcano's rim, the only break in the steep slopes encircling the lake. A very nicely defensible position, though if some hostile group did make it up the hill, the villagers would be trapped, between the lake at their backs and the mountainous slopes to either side.

A guard stood at the top of the slope, warily watching them approach. He blocked the path as they drew near, a hostile expression on his face.

"What are you doing in Haven?" he demanded. "There's nothing for you here."

"I have business in Haven," Right told him firmly.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "No, you do not. I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor."

"Is there a Brother Genitivi here?" Right asked. He was hardly going to let a few words from a lone guardsman dissuade him, not after the journey it had taken to reach this Ancestors-abandoned village in the first place.

"Who?" the guard asked, stiffening slightly. "Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak. "Unfortunately, he is ministering to the villagers at the moment, and cannot be disturbed."

"A Revered _father_ , huh? That's new," Alistair muttered.

Right frowned. According to the books he'd read on Chantry lore and hierarchy, the only place that had revered fathers was the Tevinter Empire; in the rest of Thedas, the priesthood was limited to women.

"It has always been thus in Haven. We do not question tradition," the guard replied, his tone even more hostile.

Right had a feeling they weren't going to get any useful information out of the man. "Very well. Excuse me," he said.

"Supplies," Zevran hissed from behind him. "We're almost out of food."

The guard hesitated, then grudgingly stepped to the side. "You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish," he said, gesturing towards a path leading up to a higher section of the village. "Then I suggest you and your companions leave."

"That was quick thinking, Zevran," Right said approvingly once they were out of the man's earshot.

Zevran snorted. "It is only the truth. Though if we take a roundabout way to reach the shop, who can blame us for getting lost in a strange town."

They had reached the foot of the path up to the next section of the village when Sten abruptly stepped forward, stopping Right.

"Interesting strategy," he said, voice sounding surprisingly hostile. "Tell me: Do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?"

Right frowned at him, puzzled by his words, especially given that they'd been travelling south for a couple of weeks now, not north. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"The archdemon is our goal. And we are heading away from it. To find the charred remnants of a dead woman. I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle."

"I'm not running, Sten," Right said patiently.

"No, you're not. I'm taking command."

"What!" Right exclaimed.

"Defend yourself, Warden. We will settle this," Sten said, and drew his sword.

For a moment Right couldn't believe the qunari was serious; not until his sword whipped around in a vicious arc, aimed directly for Right. He yelped and ducked out of reach, hurriedly drawing his own weapons as Sten advanced, already drawing back his sword for another slash. Alistair and Zevran stood watching, frozen, unsure whether or not to interfere in the fight between the two.

The fight was short but brutal. Right ducked, dodged, and danced around, trying to take out the much larger fighter without killing him; something Sten didn't seem to have a matching compunction about. If his swings connected solidly, they would likely severely injure the dwarf, if not kill him outright. Right was once again thankful for all the time he'd spent sparring with Sten; he _knew_ the giant's moves, and thanks to Zevran's coaching, knew counters for many of them. Sten only got in a few swings before Right bounced right through his guard, the flat of his sword connecting solidly with the side of Sten's head; not, thankfully, as lethally as a similar blow had connected with the false Weylon's. Sten dropped to his hand and knees, stunned, sword slipping from nerveless fingers.

Right backed away, weapons still in hand, waiting to see if Sten would continue his attack, and was relieved when the qunari slowly pushed himself back upright, picked up his sword, and sheathed it.

"I was wrong. You are strong enough. What now?" Sten asked.

Right sighed in relief, and resheathed his own weapons. "Just get back in line, Sten." he said tiredly.

"As you wish," Sten said.

* * *

As soon as they entered the shop, Zevran headed over to look over the available food supplies. Right and the others wandered around, looking at the odds and ends for sale. It was a surprisingly eclectic mix of things, for such an out of the way place.

Sorting through a box of dusty boots – his own were wearing thin after all the walking they'd been doing the last few months – Right was surprised to unearth a finely tooled pair from the bottom of the crate. Too large for him, but... something about them rang a bell. The shopkeeper noticed his interest and drifted over to see if he could make a sale. "Interested in those?" he asked. "Finest Antivan leather – worth a small fortune, unfortunately no one around here can afford something like that."

"They're too big for me," Right automatically responded. "But I might be willing to take them off your hands, assuming you're not actually asking a small fortune for them."

The shopkeeper sighed. "I paid more for them then I should have... I don't think I can come down on their price too much..."

Right smiled, recognizing the patter of a shopkeeper prepared to deal. Judging by the dust, he'd had them on hand for quite some time; likely he'd be happy just to get rid of them, to free up space for something more immediately saleable to the local villagers then a luxury pair of tooled leather boots. In the end, he paid more for them then he probably should of, but considerably less then they'd have been sold for somewhere with a wider market.

He walked over to where Zevran was sorting through a pile of dried, smoked fish and strips of dried meat, selecting pieces to buy. "Got you something," he said, thrusting the boots towards him.

Zevran's eyes widened. He took the boots and held them up, admiring the tooled patterns, then drew a deep, appreciative sniff. "That smell... this is Antivan leather, isn't it? I would know that anywhere! I don't know how you found it, but thank you."

Right smiled. "What are you waiting for? Try them on," he urged.

"But I'm not finished admiring them, yet! Can you smell that? Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City," he exclaimed, running fingers appreciatively over their surface, brushing off the last of the clinging dust, before sitting down on the floor to pull off his current boots – as well-worn as Right's own – and tug on the new pair.

Right frowned as he realized his nose, too, was picking up a scent of corruption, It couldn't be from the boots though; he'd have noticed it earlier. The scent was only over at this end of the room. From the dried meat, perhaps? But no, it wasn't from the crates on the table, but instead wafting through a nearby doorway.

He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he realized what it put him in mind of; the smell in the room where they'd found the murdered Weylon.

"And they fit, as well! Marvellous!" Zevran exclaimed as he rose to his feet again, then gave Right a questioning look as he caught side of the disturbed look on the dwarf's face. "What is it?"

"Like rotting flesh?" Right said quietly, tilting his head slightly towards the nearby doorway.

Zevran took another sniff of the air, and his eyes widened as he realized what Right meant. Without another word, the two turned and stepped towards the doorway.

The shopkeeper hurried out from behind his counter. "What are you doing? That's private!" he exclaimed.

"I'll just take a peek," Right said as Zevran stepped into the man's path. He reached out for the curtain draped across the doorway.

"No!" the man exclaimed, and drew a long knife from his belt. "No! You have no right!"

Zevran cut him down before he could do more then step forward. "I really hope that was necessary," he said as he looked down at the body.

Right stepped into the back room, followed by Zevran and Alistair, and looked around. He didn't see anything out of place at first, just the usual piles of boxes, bags and crates you find in any storeroom, and then noticed an alcove at the far end of the room. He stepped over and glanced inside.

"It was," he said grimly, staring down at the dismembered remains of at least two bodies on the floor.

One was old enough that it was almost completely skeletonized, its armour and weapons nowhere to the seen. The other, still dressed in remnants of mail, was much more recent, and clearly the source of the rotting odour they'd noticed.

"That's one of Arl Eamon's knights," Alistair said grimly. "I recognize the insignia."

"There are villagers gathering outside, Kadan," they heard Sten call from the storefront. "I like this not."

They hurried out to join him, and peered out the small window to one side of the door. Several well-armed men were gathering in front of the store, watching the door, weapons in hand.

"I suspect they mean for us to disappear, just like Arl Eamon's knights did," Alistair pointed out.

Right nodded in agreement. "I think I see a mage out there, behind the guards," he said. "Alistair, Sten, you deal with the guards, Zevran and I will take the mage," he said, then went over to the door. "Ready?" he asked, and when everyone nodded, yanked it open.

* * *

It was a grim afternoon's work, dealing with the villagers. They attacked in waves, clearly bent on slaughtering the interlopers. Men, women, well armed and armoured or in work clothes and armed with kitchen knives or farming tools, they attacked and had to be cut down. Thankfully most of them had little to no skill with their weapons, and were easily dealt with. The one exception being their archers; a hunter who couldn't hit a target would go hungry, in places like this where men depended more on game then on livestock for food. One shaft pierced Zevran's thigh, luckily missing anything vital. He cursed fulsomely as they drew it and bandaged the wound, and gave thanks that it hadn't damaged his new boots.

Searching the houses afterwards, they found further evidence of the gruesome ends that Arl Eamon's knights had likely met; bloody altars erected in more then one of the dwellings, some still sticky with evidence of recent sacrifice. They hoped it was nothing worse then chickens that had met their end on the gruesome blocks, but the sheer volume of blood made that seem unlikely.

They continued up beyond the town, to the chantry perched on a ledge overlooking the village. Right tried to talk Zevran into remaining behind in the town to wait for them, but he insisted on coming along, gamely hobbling along on his injured leg.

They ended up being glad of this presence when they entered the chantry, and found it packed with villagers just finishing some sort of worship, led by the Revered Father Eiric that the guard had mentioned to them earlier in the day. The villagers and the father attacked, and it was a hectic battle within the close confines of the chantry before they were defeated. Without Zevran's admittedly reduced help, they might have been overwhelmed.

Searching the building afterwards, they came across a well-hidden door, an entire panel of stonework that could be slid to one side in an oiled groove. They'd have missed noticing it, but the channel had been greased with animal fat, and Stench's interested attempts to lick up some of it drew their attention.

Beyond it was revealed a small stone-walled room, lined with bookcases, a badly injured and half-starved man lying collapsed on a worn rug in the middle of the floor. By the look of it, he'd been tortured. One leg was clearly broken, the foot on that same leg badly infected, nearly gangrenous.

He roused when they neared, and quickly identified himself as Brother Genitivi. He spoke of weeks of captivity in the brutal hands of the villagers; cultists, he named them, followers of some perverted version of the Chant of Light. The temple where he believed the Urn of Andraste could be found was in a temple further up the mountain beyond the village; as badly injured as he was, he insisted he was well enough to accompany them to the temple, and said that he knew how to open its doors for them.

Right decided they'd spend the night in the chantry – the least disturbing of the options they had, considering what they'd seen in the houses below. He sent Sten off to fetch Shale and their gear, and Alistair back to the store to gather up the food supplies they'd left behind, while he did his best to make Brother Genitivi and Zevran comfortable. The elf had further damaged his leg during the melee in the chantry, and was pale and sweating from the pain, though gamely trying to act as if nothing was wrong with him.

"I've a question, if I may," Zevran hesitantly asked once the others had left.

"Go ahead."

"Well, here is the thing: I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you're on and this is all very fine and well. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity."

Right frowned. "Does your oath expire then?"

"Not precisely. I said I would serve you until you saw fit to release me. One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?"

Right thought for a while. He hoped that this conversation wasn't some sign that Zevran wanted to leave their party; he'd come to depend on the elf. "I'll... not hold you to any oath," he said slowly. "Leave whenever you like."

"Oh?" Zevran said, sounding surprised. "That is certainly good to know. But let's assume that I didn't desire to leave, when the time came. What then?"

"I could always use a friend," Right said softly.

"Indeed? Hmm. I might even be glad to call myself such, come to think of it. It is good to know what my options might be."

Alistair returned just then, bringing their conversation to an end.

There was no proper fireplace in the chantry, but Zevran managed to put together a small, nearly smokeless fire in a bare patch of floor, and prepare a meal for them. It was good to spread out to sleep, afterwards, instead of all of them cramming together into a single tent.


	29. The Ruined Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They headed up the mountain to the temple first thing the next day. Since they weren't sure that they'd killed all the hostile villagers the day before, they had to maintain a watch as they moved; this meant they didn't dare tie up anyone with helping their two wounded members, so Zevran and Brother Genitivi had to help each other.

They headed up the mountain to the temple first thing the next day. Since they weren't sure that they'd killed all the hostile villagers the day before, they had to maintain a watch as they moved; this meant they didn't dare tie up anyone with helping their two wounded members, so Zevran and Brother Genitivi had to help each other.

"At least between the two of us we have two good legs," Zevran observed as the two hobbled along, leaning heavily on each other. "If we are attacked, drop to the ground," he advised the brother. "I can still fight, at least well enough to protect the pair of us in a melee. As long as no one expects me to do any fancy footwork, anyway."

They reached the temple entrance by mid-morning, without any sign of cultists. It was up above the snow line, and heavy drifts lay to each side of the entrance. Yet it had clearly been cleared at some recent time; there was only a light dusting of snow on the steps leading up to the doorway. They entered, and found themselves in a small foyer, facing more stairs leading up to a second, much more massive door.

Brother Genitivi carefully manipulated a strange medallion that they'd found on the Revered Father; a key, he explained, as he carefully unfolded it. When he was done, he pressed it firmly into a depression hidden among the ornamentation on the door's outer face. There was a distinct, though muffled, clicking sound. He pressed his fingertips into indentations on the medallion, and twisted his hand. The medallion turned in place, and they heard the bolt holding the doors shut snick open. He gave them a smug smile before he led the way inside.

They found themselves in a vast, vaulted space, the far end lost in darkness. Drifts of snow and mounds of ice littered the interior, twilight-lit by sunlight filtering through the thick layers of snow and ice outside the long-buried windows. The temple was badly damaged, falls of stone blocking some of the exits from the room, whole stretches of the arched openings that had once undoubtedly been filled in by vast panels of stained glass were shattered, the columns fallen. Yet it was still possible to imagine how magnificent it must have been when new, before the snows enveloped it. Even in its current condition, it outdid any chantry that Right had yet seen down in the lowlands.

They left Brother Genitivi and Zevran there, the brother happily examining and exclaiming over wall carvings with Zevran keeping a watchful guard over him. Right, Alistair, Sten, Shale and Stench continued further in, seeking the Urn.

* * *

For all its seeming abandonment, the temple proved to be a veritable hive of activity. The villagers had been only the visible face of the group, the cut face of the ore body; the temple was the centre of their worship, and beyond the first few rooms and passages, it swarmed with well-armed fighters and well-trained mages.

Right lost track of time, as they fought their way through the dimly lit interior. Occasionally they'd hit a space where, as in the first majestic room, some light filtered in from outside, but it was so dim and blue from its passage though unknown thicknesses of snow and ice that there was no way to guess if it was sunlight or moonlight. Mostly the place was lit by torches and candles, widespread, with near-darkness between the isolated pools of light. They fought and killed, over and over again, for what felt like an eternity, slaying men and women, fighters and mages, wraiths and other evil apparitions.

Eventually they tired enough that they _had_ to rest, no matter how dangerous their surroundings. They backtracked into the areas they'd already cleared, and holed up in a small side room, bracing the door closed with some heavy crates and chests so they'd have some warning if anyone tried to break in. They lit a fire, breaking up some old bookshelves to supply the wood, and sprawled around it to sleep, Shale standing silent guard over them. The next day – or night – was more of the same, fighting onwards through the ruin, progressing beyond the man-made sections and into twisting narrow caverns in the heart of the mountain beyond. There they began to run into even stranger things, like dragonlings.

"They're dragon cultists!" Alistair exclaimed, and then had to explain to the other three what those were; humans who worshipped and lived alongside high dragons, aiding in the rearing of their young. He grimly predicted that they would encounter even worse creatures further in; drakes, the much larger and more dangerous form that dragonlings eventually grew into. And he proved correct; they encountered drakes more then once as they worked their way through thecaves, some times on their own, more often fighting alongside packs of cultists. It began to feel as if the nightmarish journey through the depths of the temple would never end, that they had always been fighting here, that they _would_ always be fighting here.

They stopped again, rested again, ate and continued onwards.

Finally they found themselves in a large cavern, dotted with steaming hot springs that gave the air a distinctly sulphurous odour, confronting yet another group of cultists. One stepped forward, and raised his hand, making it clear he wished to speak. He identified himself as Kolgrim, the leader of the cultists, and challenged their presence here in the temple, accusing the group of murdering the cultist's young. It took Right a moment to puzzle out what the man meant; they'd killed no children. Then he realized the man referred to the dragonlings and drakes they'd killed on their way through the caves – the young of the whatever dragon it was this man and his brethren worshipped. By other things the man said, Right realized that the cultists were convinced the dragon was Andraste reborn..

"I've come to make sure you never hurt anyone again," he said grimly.

"To arms, my brethren! Andraste will grant us victory!" Kolgrim roared, and he and his men attacked, backed up by two mages. Right sprinted for the nearest mage, wishing Zevran was here to take out the other; Alistair, Sten and Shale were too busy dealing with the men attacking them to break free and help him. Stench, thankfully, had decided to stick to Right's heels, and between the two of them they got the first mage down before he could do much damage.

Right cursed when he turned away, and saw that the other mage had managed to freeze Sten and Alistair; motionless, they were unable to defend themselves, and Shale was hard-pressed trying to keep the attacking cultists away from the two helpless men. He and Stench charged the second mage, the mabari taking a flying leap at the last moment that bowled the man over on his back before Stench ripped out his throat. As the man died, his magic faded, freeing Alistair and Sten.

Dog and dwarf returned to the main brawl, doing their bit to cut down the cultists, one by one, until only Kolgrim was left, doggedly fighting on. But with five against his one, it wasn't long until he joined his brethren in death.

They had to stop for a while then, long enough to do what they could for the wounds they'd all received in the course of the fight, and to eat, munching tiredly at strips of dried meat or fruit. Sten examined the huge double-headed axe that Kolgrim had been wielding, and decided it was an improvement over the sword he was currently using. Silently he stripped the harness for it from Kolgrim's corpse, and adjusted the straps to fit his own, larger form.

Right looked towards the door leading away from the area, then shook his head and went over to sit down on the warm stone floor near one of the hot springs.

"Wake us in a couple of hours, Shale," Right asked the golem. "Best we rest for a while before continuing."


	30. The Gauntlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair lay on his back by the steaming pool, trying to sleep and failing. Part of that was the combination of unyielding stone surface and heavy metal armour, and part of that was his inability to still his thoughts.

Alistair lay on his back by the steaming pool, trying to sleep and failing. Part of that was the combination of unyielding stone surface and heavy metal armour, and part of that was his inability to still his thoughts.

Ever since he'd had the confrontation with Right over the leadership of the group, he'd been watching him closely, watching for faults and errors, for things that would justify to him his dislike of the dwarf. He'd been so _certain_ that Right was a poor leader, making slapdash decisions with little regard to anything more then fattening his own wallet.

He'd watched how the dwarf spent some time talking with everyone, each night in camp. He'd joke with Zevran for a while, then go chat with Sten, patiently drawing the normally taciturn giant into conversation. He seemed to know when the qunari had had enough, and would move on again, spending some time talking with the golem as well, sprawled on the ground at its feet, asking one question after another and grinning widely its more outrageous responses, even its more overtly homicidal ones.

The golem had fascinated Alistair when it had first joined their party. He'd had a golem doll as a child, a rare gift from Arl Eamon. He'd loved that thing, carried it everywhere, until in the way of childhood toys it eventually disappeared. He'd rather hoped he and the golem could become friends, but quickly abandoned that idea in the face of its hostile attitude. Later, he'd come to realize that being around the golem gave him the creeps; it was kind of nightmarish, seeing something that looked like a beloved childhood toy but was ten times the size and cheerfully spoke about how it would happily crush you in your sleep if not for the fascinating game of counting your breaths.

Yet Right seemed to have become friends with the thing. Friends with Sten and the elf as well. He seemed to have a skill for making friends, a skill Alistair, who'd only ever had two, maybe three real friends in his entire life, knew he was jealous of. The dwarf was friends with everyone in their group; everyone _except_ Alistair.

Alistair bit his lip, remembering that terrible time after Ostagar. He'd been in shock, he supposed, between his own near-or-possibly-even-beyond-death experience at the top of the Tower of Ishal, and learning from the witch of the horrific deaths of Duncan and the other Grey Wardens. Overwhelmed by darkspawn... it was all too easy to imagine what their ends must have been like. Darkspawn had never been particularly neat or efficient killers. More of the hacking, slashing, tearing-apart-into-gobbets-of-flesh variety, really.

The dwarf had tried to talk with him more then once in those first early days, and he flushed now as he remembered how he'd rebuked Right's attempts to draw him into conversation, ignored or diverted his questions.

Okay, so the dwarf had maybe at least _tried_ to become friends with him. And maybe it was partially – okay, _mostly_ – Alistair's fault that it hadn't worked out. That still didn't excuse the decisions the dwarf had made since.

It had seemed so _obvious_ to him what they needed to do after Ostagar; first, go directly to Redcliffe and see Arl Eamon. Eamon was the obvious choice to take over leadership, he'd know how they could best make use of the recovered treaties, could tell them where to go and what to do. Everything would have been so much _easier_ , once he was in charge.

Instead they'd wandered at random over half of western and southern Ferelden, making no progress on anything; not on finding themselves a proper leader, not on using the treaties. Okay, sure, they'd acquired a few companions to help them, which was nice to have on the larger fights. And... he appreciated what they'd done when they briefly returned to Ostagar. Recovering King Cailan's gear and papers, seeing that his brother's remains were properly burnt, seeing where Duncan had died – that had been something worth doing.

And then when they'd finally, _finally_ reached Redcliffe, his dreams of seeing Arl Eamon take over leadership had fallen apart. Arl Eamon poisoned, Connor possessed, the horrific attacks by the undead... and Right had _messed up_ , so very badly. Not just Connor's murder, no, that was just the icing on the cake. The dwarf had clearly been out of his element, his attempts to bolster the defences of the town had been inept at best. Some of the individual actions he'd taken had been reprehensible, like slaying that poor drunken blacksmith out of hand, or the way he'd freely used threats to get people out to defend the place, many of whom had subsequently died in the battle with the undead.

At least the dwarf now seemed to have some proper level of concern over Arl Eamon's fate; if anything, he seemed a little driven in his attempts to find the Urn of Andraste. Unfortunately, this meant that the dwarf was now ignoring his _other_ responsibilities, such as invoking the treaties they carried. They'd passed through the northern edges of the Brecilian Forest on the way to Denerim, yet completely ignored their proximity to the place. Really, how long could it possibly have taken to find a Dalish tribe and say 'by the way, we have this treaty, troops please"?

And Orzammar! They could travel a day out of their way to check for news of some sword the big qunari had misplaced, and yet even though they were _on the very threshold_ of Orzammar, had not taken a few hours to pop in and see the King about the treaty and demand help. It was infuriating!

He realized the direction of his thoughts had him simmering with anger again. At this rate, he was not going to get any rest at all, and Maker only knew how much of this blasted place they still had to get through to get their hands on the ashes. Assuming they were even really here.

He forced himself to calmness, running over the words of one of the more soothing canticles in his head while breathing deeply and slowly, trying not to think of Shale standing nearby, counting each and every one of them.

* * *

They emerged from the ruins a few hours later into bright mid-morning sunlight, on a high plateau ringed by snow-capped spires of stone and peppered with steaming hot springs. A roar drew their eyes upwards, and they all froze, watching an enormous dragon circle once overhead before casually back-winging down onto a high perch overlooking the plateau. It roared again, then curled up, cat-like, though whether it was sleeping, or merely basking in the sunlight, was anyone's guess.

At that point Alistair would have been all for a strategic retreat – it was a _dragon_ , after all, and not just any old garden-variety dragon but a full-blown, fully grown _high dragon_! - but when he looked toward Right, the dwarf wasn't even looking at the beast, or at the doors behind them, but was instead gazing at something on the far side of the plateau.

Doors. Big ones, in another section of finely carved stone. Yet more temple, by the look of it.

"We'll give it ten, fifteen minutes to be sure that thing is really settled down for a while, and then we'll be crossing to those far doors as quietly as we can," Right said in a firm undertone, then led them back into the shadows of the still-roofed-over section of the covered walkway.

They stood quietly, Sten staring imperturbably at nothing, Shale muttering darkly to itself – something about how it bet dragons were even worse then pigeons – while the rogue stood at ease, slightly slouched, hands resting near weapon hilts, watching the dragon through narrowed eyes.

Alistair found himself watching it too after a while. Maker, but it was huge! And yet people used to hunt them, to the point that they were now rarer then hen's teeth. Though he rather suspected it was the younger forms, like the dragonlings and drakes they'd already encountered, that had been the main focus of hunters; not behemoths like this one.

They were all very tense as they crossed the plateau, especially when they passed underneath the creature's perch. The sound of its long, slow inhalations and exhalations raised the hair on the back of Alistair's neck. It breathed out suddenly at one point, a snorting gust of air that put Alistair in mind of the sounds Stench sometimes made when dreaming. The comical mental image of a dragon-sized Stench snorting in its sleep had him biting his lip to keep back laughter. Laughter that he knew would have had more then a little hysteria in it, if he'd allowed it out.

Finally they reached the door, and slipped inside the next section of temple.

Right sighed. "Sodding Ancestors!" he exclaimed in a low, shaken voice. "I am _not_ looking forward to having to sneak back past that thing when we're done here," he said.

They took a moment to catch their breath, then headed forward.

* * *

The narrow corridor twisted deeper into the mountainside, before suddenly opening up into a sizeable room; not anywhere near as majestic as the vaulted space in the lower portion of the temple, not even as big as Arl Eamon's great hall in fact. Closed doors were visible at the far end of the room, a motionless figure in gleaming silverite armour standing silently in front of them. Another cultist, perhaps?

They approached slowly, cautiously. They could see the man's eyes glittering in the depths of his helmet as he watched them approach.

"I bid you welcome, pilgrim," he said in a deep, resonant voice as they drew closer, looking directly at Right.

"Who are you?" the dwarf asked suspiciously.

"I am the guardian of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have waited years for this."

"For someone to take the Ashes?"

"No one can take the Ashes. They belong here," the Guardian said severely. "It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting have I been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea."

"Will your task ever be done?" Right asked.

"I do not know, and I do not question."

Right nodded. "Let's not waste time. How do I get to the Urn?" he asked.

"You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy."

"Prove myself? So I have to fight you?"

"It is not my place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not..." the Guardian trailed off in a manner that made it unpleasantly clear what the likely cost of failure was.

"That sounds unpleasant. Can it be avoided?" Right asked.

"No." the Guardian answered flatly.

"All right, let's get this over with then."

"Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past – your suffering, and the suffering of others. You rose above your caste to become a Grey Warden, but you left behind your family who relied on you. Tell me, pilgrim, did you fail them?"

Alistair frowned as he looked at Right. He was surprised to realize he knew almost nothing of his fellow Grey Warden's past, only that he had been recruited by Duncan from among the casteless in Orzammar, and that Duncan had considered his martial skills to be exceptional. As he looked at Right, he saw several emotions flit across his face – doubt, pain, anger – before his jaw set in a stubborn clench.

"How do you know of my past?" he asked harshly.

"Your path is laid out before me and plain to see – in the lines of your face and the scars on your heart." the Guardian answered calmly.

Alistair wanted to laugh. A scarred heart? _Right_?

"Do you believe you failed your friends and family?" the Guardian asked, persisting in his question.

"My answer is my own, Guardian," Right said, his voice openly hostile.

The Guardian looked mildly surprised. "Very well. You know your own heart," he said.

Alistair felt even more curious about Right's past now, wondering what could make Right clam up like that.

He noticed he wasn't the only one watching Right; Sten was looking at him too. "Parshaara! Leave the past where it falls," he said, a look of approval on his face.

"And what of those that follow you?" the Guardian continued, and turned to look at Alistair. "Alistair, knight and Warden... you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don't you, if you should have died, and not him?"

Alistair felt like he'd been dealt a blow. How could this man know his innermost doubts so easily? "I... yes," he said, voice cracking. "If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I'd just had the chance, maybe..." he trailed off.

The Guardian turned to look at Sten next. Before he could speak, Sten did. "Demand whatever answers you want, spirit."

"You came to this land as an observer, but you killed a family in a blind rage. Have you failed your people, by allowing a qunari to be seen in that light?"

"I have never denied that I failed," Sten said firmly.

"Shale, the stone giant..." the Guardian said, turning to look at the golem. "There is so little I can draw from you. I feel the distant echo of a soul, dormant for so long, now awake..."

"Good for you," Shale interrupted, its voice filled with dislike.

"And with the awakening, the slow realization of all you have lost. Ah, Shale... your entire existence is a test of your will and courage. You have my respect," he said, and gave a slight bow in the golem's direction, then stepped back, gesturing at the door behind him, which silently swung open.

"The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek," the guardian said, and faded away.

* * *

Right led the way forward, his lips pressed together. A short hallway led them to another room, a series of archways breaking up each long wall into little stalls. A shimmering figure stood in each, waiting, their ghostly eyes all focused on Right.

Alistair found himself wondering how everything here seemed to know that Right was their leader; okay, yes, he _was_ their leader, but how could _they_ know that? Based on appearance alone, Sten or even himself would have seemed the more obvious choice.

As they approached the first spirit, it spoke. Its words were vague, hinting at something – a riddle of some kind. Oh, _Maker_ , religious riddles, and the dwarf wasn't even Andrastrean! How were they going to manage to make it past this part of the test!

To his surprise the dwarf came up with the correct answer after only the slightest of hesitations, before moving on to the next ghostly figure and enigmatic riddle. They worked their way around the room, the dwarf listening carefully to each figure, then answering the riddles with calm assurance; not a single answer wrong.

Alistair found himself staring at the dwarf as they moved on again through the next set of doors, surprised. He wouldn't have expected a dwarf to be able to pull off a feat of scholarship like that. By the black city, he'd only known about two thirds of the answers himself, and he'd been schooled in the chantry, in training to be a templar!

Right stopped abruptly as they entered the next room. Another dwarf stood there, his back to them. He turned as they came to a stop, then grinned at Right. "Hey. What's shapin'?" he asked.

Right looked stunned. "Hello, Leske," he said, voice cracking.

"Haven't seen me for months and all you have to say is, 'Hello, Leske?' Not even a 'So, how's hiding from Jarvia been so far?' She wants to take me apart layer by layer. Didn't know I had that many layers. Did I mention she's real upset about Beraht?" Leske said, voice dripping with contempt.

Right started to respond, then abruptly stopped. His expression went from stunned to hostile, and he straightened up, hands dropping to his weapon hilts. "I don't care what you are. I will not play your game," he rapped out.

"It's not a game to us," Leske replied. "Is it really so difficult to say how you feel about those you left behind?" he asked, and paused for a moment.

Right just stared at him, jaw clenched, refusing to respond.

"They say the Maker knows your heart, no matter how much you try to hide it," Leske said, gently, and faded from view. Another spirit of some kind, as solid-seeming as the Guardian had been.

Right slowly drew in a deep inhalation, then continued forward, leading them into another room. The air was filled with a fine vapour – smoke or steam, perhaps – and as they entered, some of it coalesced into faint simulacrum of everyone in their group, then drew insubstantial weapons and attacked. They found themselves fighting near-invisible duplicates of themselves, correct in every detail down to the stubble on Alistair's chin and a recently acquired cut on Sten's arm.

Thankfully the duplicates were duplicates in appearance only; they lacked the skill and co-ordination of the people they mimicked, and after a tough but short fight, the last of them faded away, dissolving back into the vapour that had given it ghostly form.

They came to another room. A large circular pit gaped in the middle, two narrow ledges curving off to left and right, not quite circling the room; the gaps between the ends of the ledges and the continuation of the corridor at the far side was too large to jump. Low stone platforms ringed the pit, six to each side. When Alistair curiously started to step up on one, a ghostly section of bridge flickered into existence, startling him and making him jump back in surprise.

"Another puzzle," Right said resignedly. They spent some time working their way long each ledge, trying each platform in turn. Some made only one bridge section appear; some made two. Right had them try two platforms at once, and one of the sections took on a solider appearance. After some experimentation, Right walked back to the entrance of the room. "Okay," he said firmly. "Alistair, stand on that third one to my left. Sten, you go over _there_ ," he pointed to his right, "And Shale, the one beside him..."

The first bridge section filled in, looking perfectly solid. Right picked up a pebble from the floor, and tossed it forward. Disconcertingly, it passed right through the section, disappearing into the pit below. Right stood frozen for a moment, then lifted one foot and slowly lowered it. Stopped, his foot resting on the surface. Visibly swallowed, before moving forward and putting his full weight on the insubstantial stone. He thought a moment, then ordered Shen to move to a different platform. As Sten stepped off the one he was currently on, the stone beneath Right faded again. Somehow he managed to twist and leap, making it back to solid ground, before its loss of solidity could send him after the pebble.

He swore for a moment, then rose, dusting off his pants. "Let's try that again," he said, and had Sten return to his original position. Once more he stepped out on the bridge section. He thought a while, then asked Shale to move. This time, his decision was correct; the first bridge section remained firm, and a second one solidified. He stepped forward.

Alistair watching him. The dwarf was maintaining a calm expression, but he could see the sweat beading right's forehead, see the slight tremor in his hands, head the tenseness in his voice. The dwarf was scared spitless by this puzzle bridge, justifiably so now that he was out over the middle of the pit, with no hope of leaping to safety if he got it wrong a second time. Alistair didn't envy him, especially since he himself couldn't figure out how the dwarf was even figuring out the correct series of moves to make.

Yet a few minutes later, Right stepped off the far end of the bridge onto solid ground. With a harsh grating sound, the entire thing solidified behind him. He smiled back at them "Come on over," he said.

Alistair stepped off his platform as the others did, and was relieved to see the bridge remain solid. The moves had left him closest to the start of it, but as he reached it, he hesitated, remembering the pebble passing right through it, disappearing into the depths. Sten stepped past him and strode out onto the bridge as if he didn't have the slightest doubt about the realness of it. Feeling slightly ashamed at his own hesitation, Alistair hurried to follow.

* * *

The last room was clearly the end; a rounded chapel, a large statue of Andraste on a raised platform at the far end, a glittering golden urn visible even from here resting at the statue's feet.

A line of fire divided the room in two. The heat from it beat against their skin, even back by the door; as they walked forward a few feet to where a simple alter stood, Alistair could feel his skin breaking out in a sweat, could almost swear he smelled frazzling hair. Moving any closer then the altar would be insane; trying to cross the line, suicidal.

Right stood looking at the fire for a long moment, then gazed down at the alter. There was an inscription on its stone face. "Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight," he read aloud.

He sighed, then stripped off his armour and weapons, piling them on the altar, even his jewellery, until he stood clothed in nothing but his smallclothes. And then walked forward, through the flames, as if they weren't even there.

The Guardian re-appeared. "You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet; you have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim," it said, approval evident in its voice. "You may approach the Sacred Ashes."

The fires disappeared. Right took a couple of minutes to re-arm himself – just as well, Alistair thought, it would probably be hugely sacrilegious to be in the presence of Andraste's actual corporeal remains dressed in nothing but your smalls – and the whole group of them approached the urn.

Sten seemed contemptuous of the whole thing, but that didn't stop him from watching with obvious interest as Right retrieved a pinch of the ashes, carefully depositing them in a draw-string pouch and securing it in one of his belt pouches.

As they turned away, the Guardian indicated a nearby doorway, then faded from sight. The door took them through a hidden shortcut in the walls, avoiding all of the rooms they'd passed through to enter, before letting them out through a cleverly hidden door, back to the mountaintop area. Alistair was surprised to see that it was barely past noon; their passage through the gauntlet had felt like it had taken considerably longer then it actually had.

* * *

Brother Genitivi and Zevran were where they'd left them, both considerably improved in health by their several days of rest. Genitivi was ecstatic to hear that they'd actually found the urn, and immediately full of plans to some day return with a full expedition of religious scholars.

Right questioned the wisdom of that, and Alistair reluctantly found himself agreeing. The ashes were something rare and precious, and he felt that it was right that they should remain difficult to obtain; he could only imagine how rapidly the Urn would be emptied if the chantry had easy access to it. Hopefully the Guardian and the Gauntlet would continue to protect them.

Zevran and Brother Genitivi quickly packed up their campsite, and all of them returned down the mountain to Haven. They'd rest there overnight, before beginning the arduous trip back to Redcliffe through the still snow-clad mountains.


	31. Gratuitous Bathing Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was late afternoon when they reached the silent village. None of them felt like sleeping in the empty houses – nor in the chantry again, as spacious as it was – so they set up camp in a small meadow on the lakeside, beside where a dock stuck out into the lake.

It was late afternoon when they reached the silent village. None of them felt like sleeping in the empty houses – nor in the chantry again, as spacious as it was – so they set up camp in a small meadow on the lakeside, beside where a dock stuck out into the lake.

They got their usual fire circle built, then spread out on the ground around it, all of them feeling tired and in need of a rest, and for once not having something that needed to be done immediately. Zevran lounged back on his elbows, staring at the lake.

"I find myself wondering why this lake has not frozen over in winter. Why, for that matter, this whole valley seems unseasonably warm compared to the surrounding mountains. There is not even snow on the ground in much of it."

"Geothermal activity," Brother Genitivi and Right said in unison. Brother Genitivi gave one of his odd little smiles, and gestured for the dwarf to continue.

"This is a volcano, or at least was one at some point in the past, and may be one again at some time in the future. There must be an active magma chamber beneath all this," he said, gesturing to include the entire interior of the caldera. "The heat from it rising through the earth is what keeps this valley warm even in winter."

He paused, then snorted. "Damn fool place to live, actually," he continued. "You surfacers know nothing about controlling magma flows. If this old mountain ever decided to blow again, everyone here at the time would die, in any of a range of very nasty ways."

"Magma?" Zevran asked, puzzled.

"Lava," Brother Genitivi explained. "Melted rock. You've seen a foundry, I take it?"

"Of course! Antiva is known for many things, among them the fineness of our steel."

"Imagine a pool of molten metal, like the smiths sometimes work with. What the dwarf is saying is that somewhere below us is a big pool of stuff like that."

Zevran looked appalled. "Well, let us hope the magma stays right where it is, then," he said. "I suspect a close encounter with this 'magma' would be very bad for my complexion." He turned his head looked at Right again. "Remind me to ask you some time about the many ways it could kill people," he continued. "But only once we're already very far away from here, if you don't mind."

Right laughed. "Sure," he agreed.

They sat in silence for a while, then Zevran stirred again. "If the whole valley is warm, and that is from heat coming up from beneath – then does that not mean the lake is likely warm also, even at this time of year?"

"Certainly," Brother Genitivi said. "Warm as bath water."

Zevran was up on his feet in an instant. "And no one has said anything! _Tontos sucious_! I would _kill_ for a bath! I smell – we all smell! - and it has been an age since we were last anywhere that we could bathe."

He was peeling out of his leathers even as he spoke, dropping them in a neat pile where he stood, until he was down to his smallclothes, then with a whoop ran down the path to the dock, diving off the end and slicing into the water. He surfaced again further offshore, and turned back towards them, a wide grin on his face.

"You all need to wash too," he told them severely. "Except Shale, since you don't stink. Come now, the good Brother is right, the lake is most deliciously warm."

Brother Genitivi and Sten rose and began stripping down as well, Alistair only a second or two behind them.

Right slowly rose to his own feet, eyeing the lake with misgiving. "I... don't know how to swim," he reluctantly admitted.

"So _wade_ then," Zevran called back. "Just get in the lake and get clean, _mi amigo_."

They all waded out into the lake to join Zevran, apart from Shale, who remained on shore, standing and watching the curious behaviour of the squishy people, and making editorial comments about their activities. Even Stench waded out, and stood in the shallows, snapping at ripples.

Zevran climbed back out and dove a number of times. Right could have sworn the sodding elf was _posing_ at the end of the dock before each dive. Sten was swimming methodically back and forth some distance out from the dock, Brother Genitivi doing the same – with rather more splashing and the occasional sputter – closer in to shore. Alistair waded out until the water was waist-deep on himself before ducking under and rising again, water streaming down his hair and torso. Another non-swimmer, Right guessed, and decided on the same method to immerse himself, though he didn't have to wade out nearly as far before doing so.

It was rather nice being in the water. A little experimentation found the right depth for him to be able to sit on the bottom of the lake, his shoulders and head breaking the surface. Alistair was standing with his back to the rest of the group, scooping up handfuls of water and scrubbing at his arms and chest. Brother Genitivi had already returned to the shallows and was stalking along parallel to the shore, peering into the crystal-clear water around his feet and occasionally bending or squatting down to examine something for a while, muttering distractedly to himself the while.

After a while Shale walked forward, and wordlessly waded out into the lake, further and further, until the water closed over its head and it disappeared beneath the water.

Zevran had ducked up the shore back to camp, and now returned with a scrap of leather topped with a handful of some soft brown goo. "I have soap," he called, laying the scrap down on the end of the dock. "And you're all to use it, on pain of death – or at least no supper – if you don't."

They all waded over and scooped up some of the harsh substance – made of lye and animal fat – and spread out again, lathering up and rinsing off.

"Here, let me help you with that," Right heard Zevran say from right behind him, then Zevran was stripping out his hair ties, and began finger-combing his braid apart. "I've been meaning to ask, how do you get your hair to remain this fascinating colour? It's not dye, is it? It would have grown out by now if it was. Besides, your eyebrows and beard are dark brown, not purple."

"Yes and no," Right said. His hair had been deep purple for so long that he often forgot it wasn't the colour he'd been born with. "There was this old geezer in Dust Town, he'd been a brewer before he did something that got him thrown out of his caste. Anyway, he used to experiment with different mosses and lichens and things, trying to see how potent a brew he could make. Whenever he managed to come up with a good recipe, he'd sell it Tapsters; gave him a little spending money so he could pay rent, buy food, and get some more ingredients to experiment with – he'd pay kids like I was at the time to gather what they could find, mostly. And some times he'd end up with stuff that wasn't drinkable."

"Let me guess – you're about to say something involving a lost bet and one of his more undrinkable results."

Right laughed. "Something like that, yes. Woke up with the headache to end all headaches, and all my hair falling out. Grew back in dark purple. The old geezer was fascinated; he could see a market for it, if only he could figure out how to duplicate the effect, and maybe get some other colours too. Never did manage it; he figured something must have contaminated that one batch, and with me having drunk the lot, there was no way to try and figure out what it was."

Zevran was working soap through his hair now, his fingers massaging Right's scalp as he did so. "So why is it only your head that has grown in purple?" he wondered aloud. "Or are you so uniquely coloured elsewhere as well?"

Right gave a short bark of laughter. "No, only my head," he said. "No idea. It happened before the rest of my body hair grew in though; maybe it could only change what was already there, though that doesn't explain why my eyebrows and eyelashes weren't affected."

Zevran grunted, then made Right duck under the water a few times to clean the lather from his hair.

They were all back on shore again, dressed in their breeches and sitting around the fire, when Shale finally stalked back out of the lake.

"Enjoy yourself out there?" Zevran asked curiously.

"Yes. There is a fascinating amount of wildlife out in the lake. Some of it surprisingly _large_ ," the golem said calmly. "And _toothy_."

"Oh? Like what?" Zevran asked nervously.

"Fish, mainly. Some as long as I'm tall, and with correspondingly big teeth." the golem calmly said as it came to a rest again nearby.

Zevran paused, then coughed. "You are joking with me, yes? Fish could not possibly grow that large in a lake...?"

"Lake sturgeon, possibly," Brother Genitivi said thoughtfully. "They can live for centuries, it is said, and the older they get the bigger they become. I've heard of specimens easily twice the size your golem just described."

"Shale," Right corrected. "Not _my_ golem."

"Shale, yes," Brother Genitivi agreed.

Zevran was frowning. "How big were these teeth?" he asked suspiciously.

Shale stirred into motion again. "I can tell the painted elf will not believe me until he sees one for himself," it said, and turned, walking back towards the lake again. "I will return shortly."

Once again it waded out, disappearing under the waters. They all sat, waiting quietly. After a while Zevran stirred, and began sorting through their supplies, trying to decide what to make for their dinner.

Shale's head broke the surface again. It slowly waded out of the lake. As it drew closer they could see one of its arms was stretched out behind it, tugging something along in its wake. Its fingers proved to be hooked through the gill slits of an enormous fish, a good eight to nine feet in length, with a ferociously barbed head and a mouth full of wickedly sharp teeth. Zevran paled. "We were swimming in the same lake as something like _that_!" he exclaimed. "I knew there could be nasty things in ocean water, but I never knew lakes could contain such things!"

"Oh, yes," Brother Geniviti said, as he looked over the monstrous fish with obvious delight. "And bigger. Though the worst fish I've ever personally seen were much smaller – about the size of your outspread hand – but half their body was toothy mouth, and they'd attack in schools big enough that they would make the water boil with their thrashing. Quite a nasty way to die, I was told."

Zevran paled further. "I may never swim again," he said fervently. "Still, at least this one is now dead. We should eat it."

And so they did – for dinner that night, and breakfast the next day, as well as taking along a portion of the meat of it that Zevran has hastily smoked over their small fire overnight. It wouldn't keep long, since it hadn't been smoked long enough to properly cure, but it gave them a change from dried meat for a day or two, by which time most of them were starting to feel heartily sick of fish anyway.


	32. No Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week of determined travel found them out of the mountains and back on the outskirts of Redcliffe village. Brother Genitivi had parted ways with them when they turned off the main highway towards the village, preferring to continue directly on to his home in Denerim.

A week of determined travel found them out of the mountains and back on the outskirts of Redcliffe village. Brother Genitivi had parted ways with them when they turned off the main highway towards the village, preferring to continue directly on to his home in Denerim.

Shale elected to stay with their gear again, having no interest in visiting the "clustered hovels of yet more squishy folk", so it was once again Right, Alistair, Sten, Zevran and Stench that headed into town. They made a brief detour down into the town, and found that Dwyn was still there, and still in possession of Sten's sword. He eyed the furious giant, groused a moment about the seller not having mentioned it had a living owner – Right hid a smile, already picturing how poorly Faryn would fare if he and Dwyn ever encountered again – then wordlessly handed over the sword.

Sten was actually voluble for a few minutes, his usual imperturbable expression showing real emotion as he spoke of his disbelief that Right could ever find it, with an entire country to search through. When Right asked about his plans now that he could in honour return to report to the arishok, Sten calmly insisted on remaining with the dwarf.

"I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the arishok's question if the Blight were ended, don't you agree?" he asked calmly, a slight smile on his face. "I am one of the Beresaad. I have never abandoned the field with the battle unmet."

Right grinned, and happily accepted the giant's continuing presence in their group.

That taken care of, they returned up the hill, and crossed over the bridge to the castle.

* * *

Bann Teagan was relieved to see them, and even more so when he learned they'd found the Urn and returned with a pinch of the ashes. He hurriedly led the way upstairs to the family quarters, where Isolde sat quietly beside her comatose husband's bed. She seemed to have aged years in the short time they'd been gone, lines of grief etched deeply into her face. When she first spotted Right, her eyes blazed for a moment with unimaginable hatred, then her expression smoothed over again, remote and cool.

They all stood by and watched as a healing mage, fetched over from the Tower after Redcliffe had been relieved, cast a healing spell over Arl Eamon, sprinkling the ashes over him as he did so. For a moment nothing happened, then the specks of ashes sputtered and flared and disappeared in tiny glowing puffs of vapour. The Arl drew a deep breath, stirred, his eyes slowly opening. He looked around, frowning at the sight of so many strangers crowded into the room. He smiled at Isolde, then frowned as he noticed his brother standing beside her, a sombre expression on his face.

"Teagan! What are you doing here?" he asked, puzzled.

It took a while for recent events to be explained to him. Teagan did most of the talking. Afterwards, everyone left the room, leaving Isolde and Eamon to their grief.

* * *

Alistair found himself watching Right again. Teagan had spoken to the servants about seeing to it that the Grey Wardens were given a proper meal and rooms for the night. The group of them had been promptly installed in a guest suite, several bedrooms arranged around a small common room. The servants had produced a trestle table and chairs from somewhere else in the castle, so that they could dine in privacy.

Right has started drinking as soon as the first bottle of wine appeared, and hadn't stopped since, though he'd switched from wine to ale as soon as one of the servants could be dispatched for some. His capacity for drink seemed to rival the Grey Warden capacity for food; the amount he'd put back would have floored a lesser man, but he seemed to still be almost entirely sober; he might as well have been drinking water, for all its apparent effect on him. Alistair wondered if this was a dwarven thing, a Grey Warden thing, or something uniquely Right.

"So what now?" Alistair heard himself asking.

Right shrugged tiredly. "See what your friend the Arl has to say, tomorrow, then go and do something with those treaties, I suppose."

Alistair frowned. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting the dwarf to say. Something out... outlandish, or stupid, or blind-headed. Not... something sensible. And then he wondered why he'd expected stupidity from the dwarf, when he couldn't actually remembering him saying anything particularly stupid or lack-witted, at any time. Something that betrayed his abysmmal ignorance occasionally, yes – but not stupid.

"Well... good," he said. "Anyway, I think I'll head to bed early. It's been a long day, and we have a lot to do tomorrow."

Right just grunted, not even seeming to notice when he left. He glanced back at the door to his room. Sten was also retiring to his bedroom. Zevran sat in a chair, feet up on the table, eyes glittering as he gazed at Alistair, idly turning a goblet in his hands. Alistair turned away, wondering how drunk the elf was; he'd been drinking all evening as well, thought he'd stuck to wine. Or had he, Alistair found himself wondering – he could remember the elf sipping from his cup frequently, but didn't actually remember him ever refilling it.

* * *

Right walked into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him. He walked over to the bed, tiredly peeling off his armour as he walked, leaving a trail of discarded pieces all the way across the floor. He knew he should gather it up, properly hang it on the armour rack in the corner, but somehow he just couldn't gather the energy to do so.

He hoisted himself up on the edge of the bed – dratted thing was sized for humans, the thick featherbed and straw-stuffed mattress raising him much further above the floor then he'd ever slept in his life. At least it was soft, and wonderfully free of twigs, rocks, and local small wildlife. At least he _hoped_ it was free of wildlife.

He hated this place. He'd have happily returned to the woods to sleep tonight, rather then sleeping here, except he strongly suspected any motion in that direction would have led to a mutiny among his companions. _They_ all heartily approved of the idea of real beds for once, even Sten.

He lay back, trying for sleep, but found it eluding him. Every time he started to relax, he saw the boy's face again, chin raised, lips trembling just slightly. So very, horribly brave...

He didn't know how long he'd lain there, awake, before he heard a faint sound at the door. The door swung open, and Zevran walked in, dressed in light cloth trousers and a loose shirt.

"I thought you might be having trouble sleeping," the elf said quietly, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Here – I found something stronger then that cat piss you were drinking earlier," he said, and held out a goblet.

Right sat up, took it, and sniffed cautiously. "Brandy?" he asked in surprise, eyebrows rising.

Zevran shrugged. "Very fine brandy, yes," he said, and grinned. "From the Arl's private stock, in fact."

Right laughed softly. "Stole it yourself, did you?" he asked.

"Of course," the elf replied complacently. "So much easier then trying to find a servant willing to fetch some."

Right snorted, then took a big gulp of the potent spirit.

Zevran made a disapproving sound. "That is not how one is supposed to treat a fine brandy," he said.

"It's how _I_ do," Right told him stubbornly, and took a second gulp. He switched to sipping after that, feeling his head spinning just slightly.

"Finish that, and I'll give you a nice massage, so you can sleep," the elf said quietly. "It wouldn't do for you to be snoring during your meeting with the Arl tomorrow."

Right nodded, and finished off the brandy. Zevran took the goblet away, putting it on the bedside table, then looked at Right. "Roll over on your stomach," he commanded.

Right wordlessly did as told. He heard the familiar small sounds of Zevran oiling his hands, then sighed in pleasure as they set to work on his back and shoulders. It just felt so _good_. Made him want to purr like cat. He almost giggled at the thought of himself as a cat; that brandy had done it, he supposed, finally sent him over the line from "tipsy" into "maybe just slightly drunk".

Which thought unfortunately reminded him of _why_ he had been drinking so heavily all evening. He heard Zevran mutter something displeased sounding, his hands returning to Right's shoulders and beginning again the careful work that Right's sudden tension had undone.

"Zevran..."

"Yes?"

"Sleep here tonight, please? I... really don't want to be alone, tonight."

Zevran's hands paused, then slowly resumed movement. "That would not be a good idea, my friend," he said, voice serious for a moment, then tried to deflect the suggestion, switching to a joking tone. "Or is there something in this room that needs assassinating? That is my speciality, or so I'm told."

Right gave a short bark of laughter. "I'd forgotten about that part."

"Forgotten about which part? Ahhhh, I see... the part where I am an assassin once engaged in the task of seeking your life. Yes, the privacy of your bedroom would indeed be an excellent place to further my fiendish goals. How lucky you are to have eluded me so."

Right snorted, then flipped over and looked at the elf. Zevran glanced away uncomfortably after a moment, a slight flush staining his cheeks. Right found himself frowning. He knew from things that Zevran had let slip in the course of his many stories that the elf slept as readily with men as with women. Personally he couldn't even imagine how that would _work_. Which thought made him picture how good having Zevran's hands touching other places then his back and shoulders might feel, and made him flush in turn.

And yet, as uncomfortable – okay, _yes_ , and curious, Ancestor's take it! - as the thought made him feel – he still didn't want the elf to leave. "Just get in the sodding bed. No questions," he found himself saying.

Zevran looked hesitant, then stretched out, carefully maintaining a distance between the two of them. They both lay silently for a while, neither able to sleep.

"Zevran... tell me more about your experiences." Right said after a while. If they couldn't sleep, they might as well talk.

"Experiences, my friend? Which kind – in the field of battle, or the lists of love?"

"You're... pretty experienced in both, aren't you?" he asked hesitantly.

Zevran rolled over, leaning on one elbow, looking down at Right. Right could see his teeth gleaming in a challenging grin. "Yes," he said. "My history is varied, indeed. It has also not been restricted to women. Does... that offend you?"

"Do you... _enjoy._.. other men?" Right found himself asking, and blushed. It must be the brandy getting to him; he couldn't _imagine_ ever asking the elf something like that otherwise.

Zevran shrugged insouciantly. "I grew up amongst whores, my dear. Sex is best when done well, and truly that is my only rule. Do I prefer women? Yes... yes, I believe I do, but you must understand that a certain open-mindedness is sought by the Crows in their recruits. For very good reasons," he said, his expression turning contemplative, brow furrowing.

"I have had to do many things in my work as an assassin, some pleasant and many not so," he continued. "The Crows recruit elven assassins because we are considered beautiful by humans... I'm sure you can imagine the rest. I cannot change my past, obviously. You are a most intriguing man, but if what I represent makes you uncomfortable... well, it would be better for both of us to know that now, yes?"

"It... doesn't bother me, Zevran." Right admitted, surprised to realize it was true. He liked the elf, respected his abilities; he couldn't see how what Zevran got up to in his spare time with other consenting partners could make any difference in that.

"You're a better person than most, I suspect. Ahhh, enough talk of the past. As my tutor used to say, 'keep your eyes to the rear in the ambush and the bedchamber and not otherwise.' Words to live by."

Right laughed shortly, then frowned, his thoughts returning to his earlier puzzlement. "How does it even _work_ , between two men?" he blurted out.

"That, my friend, is something it is much easier to show then to tell. And now, before this goes any further, I should return to my own bedchamber..." Zevran said, starting to roll over and sit up.

Right reached out, grabbed his arm. "Please... stay," he said quietly.

Zevran sat motionless for a moment, then turned his head back to look at Right. "If I leave now, nothing will happen that either of us will regret," he said softly. "If I stay..." his voice wavered.

" _Stay_ ," Right said again.

Zevran groaned. "I am a very weak man," he said, and slowly lay back down on the bed. "But I tell you now... if you are angry at me come morning because of this, I _will_ have to kill you."

Right laughed.


	33. Breakfast of Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right groaned and swore as he woke up. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, and his bladder was sending urgent signals threatening a total revolt if he didn't do something about the accumulated hydraulic pressure. He'd made his way to the garderobe, and was taking care of that, before he remembered that there should have been someone in the bed with him. Shouldn't there?

Right groaned and swore as he woke up. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, and his bladder was sending urgent signals threatening a total revolt if he didn't do something about the accumulated hydraulic pressure. He'd made his way to the garderobe, and was taking care of that, before he remembered that there should have been someone in the bed with him. Shouldn't there?

He frowned, and padded barefoot back to the bedroom. The bed was empty. If not for the goblet still sitting on the bedside table, he might have dismissed his disjointed memories of the night before as a spectacularly _odd_ dream. Except that unlike a dream, the more he thought of what bits he could remember, the more clearly the memory of what had happened here the night before returned. He could feel a blush colouring his skin as some extremely _tactile_ memories surfaced. Oh. So _that_ was one of the ways in which... his blush deepened, as he remembered each of the several ways in which Zevran had silently answered his question before they'd finally slept.

He sat down on the edge of the bed again, drew several deep, shaky breaths, then glared down at an importunate portion of his anatomy. " _You_ can just go right back to sleep," he told it. Not, unfortunately, that it ever listened. It took a while of thinking of numerous less interesting things before he was finally able to dress and leave the room in search of breakfast.

* * *

A selection of breakfast foods in covered dishes were arrayed along a sideboard handy to the table. Checking under the lids, he rapidly heaped a plate with boiled eggs, bacon, sausage, smoked fish, half a roast chicken, fried potatoes, and some grilled wobbly bits. He preferred not to know what the wobbly bits actually _were_ , as it was much easier to eat them that way.

Sten was already at the table, working his way through a plate piled with a similar assortment of food. He nodded in greeting as Right joined him at table.

Alistair came out of his room a moment later, and wandered over to check the contents of the sideboard. "Oh, hey, my favourite!" he exclaimed, and heaped a plate with wobbly bits, garnishing the pile with a couple of smoked fish and a boiled egg.

Right was starting to wonder if Zevran was ever going to come out of his own bedroom when the door to the common room opened, and Zevran whisked in from the hallway, a plate in hand. "Good morning!" he carolled, and plunked himself down in the last available seat at the table. Right stared at the contents of his plate. Surely that wasn't breakfast – there wasn't a fried thing in sight, just a few rolls of some kind of bread – very _flaky_ bread, he noticed, as Zevran took a bite of one – and some fruit and berries and a wedge of creamy cheese, and some kind of sweet pastry drizzled with frosting and studded with dried cherries...

Sten's fingers closed on the pastry at the same time as Alistair's snapped up the wedge of cheese.

"Hey!" Zevran exclaimed. "That's _my_ breakfast!"

"No, it's not," Sten carefully enunciated around a mouthful of pastry.

"What he said," Alistair agreed, happily nibbling on the wedge of cheese in between forkfuls of wobbly bits.

Zevran turned woeful eyes on Right – just in time to see the dwarf tossing the last of the berries into his mouth. "Even you betray," he said bitterly.

"There's plenty of breakfast still on the sideboard," Right pointed out.

Zevran sniffed. "It is all _garbage_. Except perhaps for the fish," he amended, and rose to his feet to go and claim a few pieces of it to go with his explosively flaky bread.

* * *

Sten and Alistair finished eating, and went back to their rooms to put on their armour for the day. Zevran waited until the doors to their rooms had closed behind them, then looked at Right.

"So... do I have to kill you today? Or do you, perhaps, have a need to kill me?"

Right smiled slightly. "No killing," he promised.

"So, then. As the priestess so famously said to the handsome actor: What now?" the assassin asked softly.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Allow me to make it simple for you, my Grey Warden. What comes next is entirely up to you. I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often. I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give."

Right nodded. "I... need some time to think about this," he admitted.

Zevran nodded. "Take all the time you need," he said, then rose to his feet and returned to his own room as well.


	34. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair glanced over at Right. The dwarf was listening to Eamon patiently, but judging by his crossed arms and the gradually deepening squint lines around his eyes, his patience was starting to run low.

Alistair glanced over at Right. The dwarf was listening to Eamon patiently, but judging by his crossed arms and the gradually deepening squint lines around his eyes, his patience was starting to run low.

Alistair's eyes drifted down to the shield leaning again Right's left leg, and he found himself wincing slightly. What was the Arl _thinking_ , giving a heavy shield as a reward to a rogue! He was sure – well, _relatively_ sure – that the Arl had meant it as a compliment, but something more, well, _practical_ would have been more to the point. At least the dwarf had accepted it politely.

Bann Teagan seemed to have noticed Right's deteriorating temper as well. He stepped forward, getting his brother's attention, and pointed out that they needed to speak of Loghain. "There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery," he said, lips pressing together for a moment.

"Long I have known him. He is a sensible man; one who never desired power," Arl Eamon gently rebuked his brother.

Teagan frowned. "I was there when he announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon. He is mad with ambition, I tell you."

"Mad indeed. Mad enough to kill Cailan, to attempt to kill myself and destroy my lands," Eamon reluctantly agreed. "Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What's more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end. We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn."

"Surrender...!" Teagan said, sounding appalled, as both Alistair and Right stiffened.

"So you're giving up?" Right asked harshly.

"No, not at all. Loghain is responsible for heinous crimes and I intend to see him pay. But, our armies must be reserved for the darkspawn, not for each other. I will spread word of Loghain's treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be but a claim made without proof," he said, then truned away from them, walking over to gaze into the fire crackling in the fireplace. "Those claims will give Loghain's allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain's daughter, the queen."

"Are... you referring to Alistair, Brother? Are you certain?" Teagan said, glancing uneasily in Alistair's direction.

Alistair, meanwhile, was feeling about what he supposed a stunned rabbit must feel like. _No_! Surely Eamon didn't mean that _he_...

Eamon turned back, a brooding look on his face. "I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred."

Right shook his head, his arms uncrossing,, hands resting near his weapon hilts – sure sign that he was feeling belligerent about something. "Alistair would be a terrible king," he said flatly.

"Hey! I'm right here!" Alistair yelped, stung.

Eamon ignored his protest. "Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair's claim is by blood."

"And what about me? Does anyone care what _I_ want?" Alistair asked bitterly.

"You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?" Arl Eamon asked softly, almost threateningly.

"I... but I... no, my lord," Alistair reluctantly agreed.

Eamon nodded. "Just so. I see only one way to proceed. I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all of Ferelden's nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin."

Rather to Alistair's surprise, Right didn't raise any further objections, instead just standing there watching Eamon, eyes slightly narrowed and the oddest expression on his face. When the Arl suggested that the Grey Wardens go and see about trying to get the treaties they had honoured, while he organized a Landsmeet, Right immediately agreed to the suggestion, and indicated that the sooner they were back on the road, the better.

They had a hasty lunch while Eamon's servants put together some supplies for them, then set out. Alistair was a little disappointed; he'd been looking forward to having a chance to talk with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan for a while, and maybe even a second night in a real bed.

* * *

Right maintained a punishing pace until they reached the highway again, then called for a rest stop. He walked a little away from the group before settling down himself, on a fallen log near the roadway, and sat staring off into space. After a while Alistair wandered over talk to him.

"So... where next?" he asked.

"Orzammar," the dwarf promptly answered.

"Orzammar? I'd have thought the Circle of Magi was closer..."

Right shook his head. "It may be, but I'd rather start with Orzammar. Then we can circle around the top end of the lake again, visit the Circle, head southeast from there to the Brecilian Forest to find the elves, and then either come back to Redcliffe, or head on to Denerim, depending on where your Arl is by then."

Alistair pictured the map in his head, and nodded slowly "That... makes sense," he agreed.

"Glad you think so," Right said dryly, then rose to his feet again. "Come on, let's get moving – we've a long way to go and it's snow all the way north," he called out.

* * *

After their earlier trips through the snow-clad mountains, they had moving-through-winter down to a fine art. Shale walked in front, its impressive and above all _tireless_ bulk ploughing a path through the snow, the others following in single file behind. Each night they had a quick meal, then piled together in their single tent while Shale stood watch. Alistair had to agree that the addition of the golem to their party had, in retrospect, been a pretty brilliant idea; their progress would have been considerably slower without it.

Right, he noticed, was acting... strangely. He'd stopped having his nightly conversations with everyone, and apart from the odd time when he needed to give them orders about something, was silent and withdrawn. Alistair had noticed Zevran approach him one evening to talk, and be gently rebuffed.

Alistair wondered why, and then found himself recalling their experiences in the Gauntlet; Right had refused to answer the Guardian's question about his past, but Alistair remembered all too clearly the mix of emotions that had so briefly shown on his face. And his later hostile reaction to the spirit that had taken on the seeming of someone from his past. And now they were travelling to Right's home; small wonder the dwarf was withdrawn.

* * *

Whatever Alistair had expected the reception of the dwarfs to the return of a Grey Warden of their kind had been, it certainly wasn't _this_.

They'd approached the gates of the city to find a messenger from Loghain arguing with the gate guard, demanding entrance to the city.

"I don't care if you're the king's wiper, Orzammar will have none but its own until our throne is settled," the gate guard was saying dismissively as they approached. Then the gate guard had caught sight of Right's party, and his face, already set in a scowl, had hardened into a mask of open dislike.

"You're the brand who dishonoured the Proving," he snarled.

Right just held out a neatly folded document. "I am a Grey Warden. This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid me," he said calmly.

The guard snatched it from his hand and began pouring over the document.

"The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly doomed Ferelden! They're sworn enemies of King Loghain!" the messenger exclaimed angrily.

"Well, that _is_ the royal seal," the gate guard reluctantly admitted, before thrusting the papers back in Right's direction. "That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it. Grey Warden, you may pass."

"You're letting in a traitor? And what was that you said, a filthy brand?" Loghain's messenger objected. "In the name of King Loghain I demand that you execute this... stain on the honour of Ferelden!"

Right gave him a disgusted look. "Run to your false king. The dwarves will not hear him today."

The messenger gaped like a fish, then shook his finger at Right and the gate guard. "You... you'll hear of this. King Loghain will see you quartered!" he spat, and marched off indignantly.

Once he'd left, the guard signalled for the gate to be opened so that Right and his party could enter, but it was clear from the way he was looking at Right that he'd sooner have seen the Grey Warden turned away as well.

The guards inside were scarcely any more welcoming. The guard inside the gate spoke formal words of welcome as they entered, but his cold tone of voice and hostile glare made the words of welcome feel more like a curse. Right just ignored the man, and stalked down the length of the Hall of Heroes toward the doors visible at the far end.

They arrived in the commons just in time to witness an argument between two groups of dwarfs, arguing over the succession; the argument ended with drawn weapons and a slaying, before cooler heads in both groups separated the two.

"Ah, politics," Zevran sighed. "This reminds me pleasantly of home."

Right snorted and glanced at the elf, before striding over to confront a nearby guardsman; by the quality of his armour, someone higher up then just a common guard. A ferocious scowl crossed his face as he saw Right. " _Veata_! I have enough crime without some casteless carrying weapons in the city. Your actions risk pain of death! Name yourself!" he demanded angrily.

"Grey Warden is all the name you need," Right told him, pointedly keeping his hands well away from his weapons.

"Warden? _You_? When I heard they accepted a brand I thought it was a joke. Surfacers and their cloud-addled heads. Fine, oh _illustrious_ Grey Warden, what do you want?" he asked sneeringly.

"The Blight is coming and I need Orzammar's assistance."

"Surface problems. Well, we have no king to hear you. You can join the shouting at the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter, if you want. Bunch of deshyr lords bickering over sand. Bhelen, Harrowmont... is one so different? No Paragons here," he groused.

Right nodded and turned away. He paused a moment, looking off to their left, then lead them to the right. As they walked along, Right drew stares of dislike and scornful words; Alistair became increasingly sure that whatever Right's history here in Orzammar was, it was not a happy story filled with sweetness and light and good fellowship.

They reached a hoist that could take them to the upper levels, Right once again having to produce the treaty before the guards unwillingly allowed them to progress to the Diamond Quarter.

They had stepped off the hoist the top, and were standing there while Right looked around, looking hesitant for the first time since they'd entered the city, when a young female dwarf, with red hair and fine clothes, came running towards them, a delighted grin on her face.

"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed happily. "I heard a dwarven Grey Warden came to Orzammar and I couldn't help but hope... Look at you! My little brother, the returning hero," she said, then looked at Alistair, Sten and Shale looming behind him and Zevran lounging nearby. "And with quite the unusual entourage..." she continued, voice faltering.

"Rica? Is that you under all those jewels?" Right asked, looking pole-axed.


	35. Hovel Sweet Hovel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wondered what species of young female dwarf this was – as in, what was the nature of her relationship to Right – and was relieved when he realized from their talk that she was his sister, or a reasonably facsimile thereof. From bits he caught as she poured out her life story since Right departed for the surface, she'd become the, err – _concubine_ of Prince Bhelen, having recently born him a son.

Alistair wondered what species of young female dwarf this was – as in, what was the nature of her relationship to Right – and was relieved when he realized from their talk that she was his sister, or a reasonably facsimile thereof. From bits he caught as she poured out her life story since Right departed for the surface, she'd become the, err – _concubine_ of Prince Bhelen, having recently born him a son.

She insisted on taking them to meet Vartag Gavorn, Bhelen's chief lieutenant, and led them to where he could be found at the Chamber of Assemblies. Vartag professed suspicion of Right's motives in wanting to speak to Bhelen, and insisted that he'd need to first convince Bhelen of where his loyalties. Right nodded, asked a few questions, said good-bye to his sister, and led them back out of the Assembly building.

They were promptly approached by a second dwarf, this one named Dulin, who apparently filled much the same function for Lord Harrowmont as Vartag did for Prince Bhelen. He, too, wanted to talk Right into supporting the candidate he worked for – Alistair guessed he must not be aware of the relationship between Right and the mother of Prince Bhelen's son – and also insisted that Right would need to prove his loyalties before he could speak directly to Lord Harrowmont.

Right's face was impressively neutral as he listened to this latest request, nodding agreeably when the other dwarf had finished speaking. It wasn't until after he'd left that Right made a disgusted face, and spat on the ground. "Nobles!" he exclaimed bitterly, then turned and led them in the opposite direction, to the large building at the farthest end of the Diamond Quarter.

The interior was filled with an impressive library; more books in one place then Alistair could remember having seen in his entire life prior to this. "What is this place?" he asked softly.

"Shaperate," Right growled out. "Records, memories, contracts, maps, plans, laws – it's all archived here," he said, and stumped over to talk with a white-bearded dwarf dressed in very fine clothes. This was the first dwarf apart from Rica, Vartag and Dulin to greet Right with something other then a scowl or a sneer.

"Greeting, Grey Warden - I am Czibor, the shaper of memories," he rumbled in an exceptionally deep and impressive voice.

Right's eyebrows rose. "You know who I am?"

"Of course. The exile's return is written in the Memories, as a Grey Warden's visit to renew the ancient alliance."

Right nodded, then drew some folded papers from his belt, and held them out. "Could you look at these promissory papers for me?" he asked.

Czibor looked faintly surprised, but took the papers and started to glance over them. A scowl creased his face almost immediately, and he gave them a second, harder look. "These are Harrowmont lands promised here... But these are not the deals we approved at the Shaperate. There _were_ two promised deals, but their terms differed significantly from what is presented here. It appears the scripter altered the dates and locations of the agreements to make them identical... Where did you get these?"

"That's not important," Right said, pointedly holding out his hand for the return of the forgeries. "Thank you. I may need to have words with someone..."

The Shaper continued to scowl angrily. "You are an outsider, Warden, but not outside the law," he said warningly. "I hope you will not do anything to challenge the stability of Orzammar."

Right just grunted in response, and led them off again. They spent a little while wandering through the aisles upon aisles of books, Right occasionally stopping to pull one from a shelf and look something up, or talking briefly with the other dwarfs there, many of whom seemed either surprised or offended to be spoken to by a "casteless brand", until finally he led them back outside, a thoughtful look on his face.

"It is getting late," Zevran pointed out. "Hard as it may be to tell in this place with no sun or stars. Will there soon be a nice meal and comfy beds?" he asked hopefully.

Right snorted. "Maybe. Neither group is exactly welcoming us with open arms or open doors, are they?" he said, then sighed. "Well, I know one place we can likely find some rooms for the night. I'd suggest we return back outside to camp except I'd be worried that they might not let us back in tomorrow," he added, before starting back in the direction of the lift.

* * *

They went back down to the commons, and most of the way around it, before Right suddenly stopped. "Tapsters," he said, gesturing up a short flight of stairs nearby. "We'll get something to eat and drink here, first."

They went inside, and found a table. Even the waitress was hostile about a brand being in the establishment, though she shut up as soon as Right made it clear he had more then enough money to pay for their food and drink. Right didn't even seem to notice her hostility, as if it was such an accepted part of what he expected to encounter here that it didn't matter to him.

Afterwards, they continued their way around the commons, eventually reaching a flight of stairs leading down to a lower level of the city. The stairs, unlike the stonework they'd seen everywhere else, were utilitarian and in poor repair; the walls as they descended changed from smoothed stone to raw, unfinished rock, its only decoration occasional chisel marks.

They emerged in what was obviously a poor section of town; there were buildings, but they had none of the grandeur of even the smallest structures up above, and were in uniformly poor repair. Falls of rock and heaps of random detritus littered the ground, kicked to the side to leave clear paths but otherwise left where it fell. The place stank, that peculiar mix of poorly washed bodies, cheap foods, cheaper drinks, misery, and fear that seemed common to poor quarters everywhere.

Alistair glanced over at Right, and was surprised to see the dwarf actually looking relaxed, as he had not been anywhere else they'd visited. He led the way through the twisting, narrow streets, ignoring the attention his oddly assorted party was drawing. He stopped a few times to exchange quiet words with people; a beggar, a, err – female dwarf of negotiable virtue – a street vendor, before stopping at an unmarked door, opening it, and walking in.

"Alimar!" he called out to the wary-looking dwarf at the other side of the room – some sort of store, it looked like. "How's it shapin?"

"Right," the man said, giving a slight nod. "Never expected to see _you_ back here again."

"Yeah, well, neither did I. But I need a place for my friends and I to doss down for a while, and since I'm not likely to find anyone willing to rent me rooms higher in the city, naturally I thought of you. Got anything open?"

Alimar snorted. "Maybe. As long as you have the coin to pay for it."

Right tapped his money pouch. "More then enough."

"In that case, I've got a few places open at the moment. Including your old one."

"Really? I'll take that, then. Bit of a tight squeeze but at least I know it's solidly built."

The two quickly negotiated an agreement for the rooms, negotiations made complex by the fact that Right had no clue how long they'd be having to stay here. Right handed over a few silvers to pay for their first week's rent.

"Know where I might find Leske?" he asked casually.

Alimar's face closed down. "I don't talk Carta business with outsiders, Right – you know that."

Right nodded. "Well – if you do see him, let him know I'm looking, at least."

Alimar didn't say anything in response to that, just crossed his arms and looked at Right. Right turned and led them back out again.

* * *

Alistair looked around the... place... Right had brought them too. He couldn't bring himself to dignify it with the name "house". "Rooms" maybe, though "smelly hovel" would be more accurate. Two rooms, the first fairly large, with a crude oven and stained work surface at one end . The second room was smaller, with some crude pallets and empty shelving, and a filthy stone tub in a nook off to one side. Piles of discarded wine bottles were everywhere, along with plenty of dust, filth, grime, and noisome bits.

"All the comforts of home," Right said, looking around. He frowned. "At least we kept it _clean_ when I lived here with my mother and sister," he said disapprovingly. "Cleaner then _this_ , anyway."

If pressed, Alistair would have had to admit that he was thinking homesick thoughts of the stable he'd spent a good-sized chunk of his childhood growing up in. The stables might have smelled of horse piss and manure in between the twice-daily mucking outs, but the straw in the stall he slept in was always clean and fresh, and not infested with anything worse then the occasional ant, spider or mouse. A nice clean pile of straw in a nice clean stable sounded like a palace compared to this... squalor.

"Please tell me there is somewhere we can get water and things to clean up this place before we spend the night here," Zevran said, a touch of desperation in his voice. "Or I think we will need to go swimming in that river of lava outside to ever be really clean again."

Right smiled. "I'll send a runner to pick up a few things from Alimar," he said. "We'll have to haul water from the square outside; no plumbing in here. None that works, anyway."

It took them a couple of hours of hauling and scrubbing to get the place to a state of cleanliness good enough that any of them were willing to consider lying down on the floors. The pallets – festering piles of threadbare reeking lice-infested rags would have been a more accurate description of them – had been among the first things to be hauled out. The only thing more appalling then the state of the rooms had been how avidly the beggars and street people of Dust Town had descended on anything they'd thrown out. The thought that any of that stuff was an _improvement_ over what people already had was... deeply disturbing.

And Right had grown up here. This place was _normal_ to him. This place had been _home_.


	36. Proving What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elf had continued cleaning for a while after everyone else had stopped, giving the old stone tub a thorough scrubbing, rinsing it, then scrubbing it a second time. Tired and ready to sleep, Alistair and Sten had claimed the large front room and stretched out on the floor there, Shale standing immobile guard by the door, leaving the smaller room to Right and the overly industrious Zevran. Stench came in and watched with interest and generally got underfoot while Zevran was cleaning the tub, but after the second time he nearly got stepped on, wisely headed out to the larger room as well.

The elf had continued cleaning for a while after everyone else had stopped, giving the old stone tub a thorough scrubbing, rinsing it, then scrubbing it a second time. Tired and ready to sleep, Alistair and Sten had claimed the large front room and stretched out on the floor there, Shale standing immobile guard by the door, leaving the smaller room to Right and the overly industrious Zevran. Stench came in and watched with interest and generally got underfoot while Zevran was cleaning the tub, but after the second time he nearly got stepped on, wisely headed out to the larger room as well.

Right watched Zevran working. "You do remember I said there's no working plumbing in here, right?" he asked.

"Yes, but there is a perfectly functional tap outside in the square, and _you_ , my grouchy friend, are going to help me haul enough water so I can have a _bath_."

"And why would I want to do that?" he asked.

"Because if I don't get properly clean again after having to get up close and personal with far too much filth in the course of cleaning out these rooms, I will have to kill myself to escape the memory, and that would be sad." Zevran said. "That will have to do," he added, rising to his feet and giving the well-scrubbed tub an evaluating look. "Come, help me fetch water."

Right groaned, but reluctantly rose to his feet and picked up one of their buckets. It took several trips back and forth to half-fill the tub and satisfy the elf.

Zevran closed the door between the two rooms, then happily stripped down and crouched in the too-small tub with a bar of soap from his backpack, humming pleasantly to himself as he set about washing.

Right stripped off his own armour and weapons, checked the edges on his blades, then began working conditioning oil into his leathers. It was rare of late that they were somewhere safe enough to remove their armour while they slept; he might as well take advantage of being in a nice solid place with two thick doors and three heavily armed guards – four, if you counted the mabari – between him and anything wanting him dead.

Zevran eventually emerged from the bath, a small towel wrapped around his waist his only nod to modesty. "Your turn," he said cheerfully. "I will even let you use my good soap."

"I don't need a bath."

"Yes, you do," Zevran said severely. "Now go get in the tub, before I have to see if I can wrestle you into it and scrub you like a recalcitrant mabari. Sadly, as much fun as that would be, I suspect it would undo much of the good of my own bath. Besides, if you are very good, I might offer to scrub your back."

Right laughed, but gave in, stripping down the rest of the way, and got in the tub. After a few minutes Zevran came over, partially dressed again in snug short breeches, his wet hair combed out straight, and insisted on helping Right to wash his back and hair.

"Would you like a massage?" he asked quietly afterwards, as Right was towelling himself off.

Right paused, and looked thoughtfully at the elf. "If you mean _just_ a massage, sure," he said, then saw a crestfallen look on the elf's face.

"I... wouldn't mind sleeping with you again some time, Zev," he said softly. "But right now I'm just so sodding tired..."

Zevran smiled. "Then just a massage it is," he said agreeably, and gestured for Right to sit down in front of him. "Though if my hands should happen to roam a bit further afield then they might normally do, I hope you won't object..."

Right laughed. "Roam all you want," he said. "I'm too tired for it to make a difference."

Zevran chuckled softly. "Careful, _mi amigo_ , or I might take those words as a challenge..."

Right had only spoken truthfully though; he was already half-asleep just sitting there, and the relaxing comfort of the massage had him fading fast. He was vaguely aware of being helped to lie down, of a warm body at his back and an arm draped over him, and then nothing.

* * *

He woke early the next morning. The house was quiet enough that he was reasonably sure the others still slept. Zevran was certainly still out; the elf lay sprawled on his back, his bundled-up leathers under his head for a pillow. He'd loosely braided his hair before lying down to sleep; the braid was now partially undone, some of the long fine hairs fanned out from it. It gave him an oddly vulnerable look. Right sat there a moment, just looking at him.

He'd never have expected to find another man attractive. Not ever. Even now... he could look at the elf, and _intellectually_ know he was a handsome creature, but it didn't stir him the way looking at an equally pretty woman might have. Until he remembered that one night together, and how being touched by and touching Zevran had felt, and then he abruptly found himself rather uncomfortably stirred indeed.

He frowned, trying to pin down what it was about the elf that had made him willing to cross that particular frightening line with him. It wasn't just the friendship between them; he'd been equally close friends with Leske, and he couldn't even _imagine_ ever being willing to sleep with _him_ , if Leske had ever actually expressed an interest in that direction.

Trust, maybe. For all that Zevran had originally been out to kill him, in the months of travel since the two of them had built up a level of trust that Right had never had with anyone else. Not even with Leske, nor his mother or sister, not _anyone_. He _knew_ , with a surprising bone-deep certainty, that the only thing the elf would ever do behind his back was keep it covered. And that sleeping with him wasn't the cost of keeping Zevran's trust; that he could tell Zevran, right now, that he never wanted to sleep with him again, and while the elf might be hurt by the rejection, he wouldn't betray the trust that had grown up between them because of it.

Zevran's eyes opened. He saw Right sitting up and looking at him, and smiled broadly. "Admiring the view?" he asked, and stretched like a cat. "You are watching me while I sleep. This is good. It means you are interested in me. Perhaps you are now feeling well-rested enough to join me here on this nice lumpy stone floor so we can become pleasantly tired again, yes?"

Right laughed. "Not right now. We have a lot to do today; get up and get dressed, I'll go see about getting some fuel for the stove so you can make breakfast.

"Ah, you only love me for my cooking," Zevran exclaimed mournfully. "I am heartbroken!"

The two dressed quickly. Right paused a moment when they reached the door, stopped before opening it, and glanced back over his shoulder at the elf. "Maybe tonight, if I'm not so tired," he said shyly, and was rewarded with a very pleased smile.

* * *

The group of them had no sooner left their rooms that day when Right came to an abrupt stop, looking at a dwarven woman sitting on the ground near the fire pit in the middle of the square.

"Nadezda? Is that you?" he said.

She looked up, frowned, then rose awkwardly to her feet, a warm smile on her face. "Well, I'll be a drunken nug. Rica's little brother! Heard you jaunted off to be a Grey Warden. What in the dust are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to check out the old neighbourhood," Right said, grinning.

"Well, here it is. Hasn't changed a bit," she said.

Right nodded in agreement. "Is Leske still living here?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, sure. You'll see him around. Not like when you two were cracking skulls together, though. You had the whole neighbourhood terrified," she said approvingly, then gave him an evaluating look. "You, uh, look like you've done well. You think you can spare a little change? There but for the grace of the ancestors, you know..."

Right smiled. "Of course. Here's ten silver. Take care of yourself."

"You too, Right. I'll think of you when I go to bed with a full stomach," she added, and returned to her seat on the ground, having made the coins vanish among her clothes.

"Who was that?" Zevran asked after they'd moved on.

"Friend of my sister's. And she used to run errands for my boss, sometimes. Guards will let a pretty brand go places where someone like me would just get a beating."

* * *

Right spent a while slowly working his way around the commons, stopping occasionally to talk to storekeepers and random passersby. Word seemed to have spread since the day before about the presence of a Grey Warden brand in the city; while people were still unfriendly on the whole, they at least answered his questions rather then dismissing him hostilely.

Then they walked into one store and found they'd walked in on a group of thugs threatening the shopkeeper.

The head thug turned and looked at them "Well, well. Looks like we have a visitor. Friend of yours?"

"Is there a problem here, friend? Are these men threatening you?" Alistair asked, and started to step forward, until Right raised his hand, signalling him to stand fast. He frowned, but obeyed – the dwarf was more familiar with this place then he was, after all.

"Please. Don't get involved with this. You don't know what they're like!" the storekeeper begged.

The thug grinned. "Then allow me to make some introductions. These are dangerous times in Orzammar, stranger. Lucky us, the merciful Jarvia is offering protection from the chaos. You're wearing some fancy stuff there. Might make you a target. So if you want the carta's guarantee of safety, it's yours for the reasonable price of ten gold sovereigns. Or I can't say what might happen."

"Did you say _Jarvia_ is running the carta?" Right asked, surprised. She'd always been one of the most ruthless of Beraht's lieutenants, but he was surprised to hear she'd managed to take over the Carta; there'd been several more senior lieutenants between her and the leadership. All of whom must be dead by now, he guessed.

The thug scowled. "And what the sod do you know about – Hey!" he abruptly broke off, giving Right a second, harder look. "You're that duster! The one who axed Beraht. Jarvia's been looking for you, and I bet she'd rather deal with you herself... Enjoy your last night alive, duster!"

He gathered his men and hurried off, keeping his distance from Right as he edged past their group to get to the door.

"He looked frightened of you," Alistair observed, puzzled.

Right snorted. "Yeah, well, carving your way out through an entire carta's worth of toads, and then cutting down your old boss tends to have that effect on other toads," he said, then turned to look at the shopkeeper.

"Ancestors bless you for saving my poor store. I don't know how to express my gratitude," the man babbled.

"Jarvia runs the carta? Know anything about that?" Right asked.

"She's a monster, plain and simple. The carta used to prey only on their own kind. But since Jarvia stepped in, they even dare the upper city. Whoever takes the throne had better root out the whole nest of them. That carta's worse than a pack of cave rats. A band of casteless thugs. They're to blame for all the crime in Orzammar these days. They're criminals and the children of criminals. The ancestors themselves declared them irredeemable!"

Right frowned. The shopkeeper seemed to abruptly remember that it was a casteless he was speaking to; a casteless who had saved him. "Err... please, let me thank you. Anything in my store is yours at the lowest prices I can afford, whenever you care to visit my fine establishment."

* * *

They moved on again after that, eventually working their way toward the Proving Grounds. Right paused when they were inside, gazing for a moment toward the centre of the main hall. "This is where I first met Duncan," he suddenly said. "He was watching me pickpocket the fans."

Alistair looked at him, frowned. "And he didn't have you arrested?"

Right laughed. "No, though he did later give me tips on my technique. That was after he'd recruited me, of course."

"Tips on technique...!" Alistair sputtered, but by then Right was already in motion again. "You're joking, right?"

Right ignored the question. He chatted with a couple of fans, soon locating one who was so excited to talk about the Provings that he cheerfully answered any question Right had about them, not even caring that it was a brand he was speaking to, as long as he got to trot out his obsession. Right quickly learned more then he needed to know about all of the fighters there today.

Eventually Right made his way over to a scowling fighter standing in one corner, and struck up a conversation with the man; one of Lord Harrowmont's, apparently. With almost frightening ease he won the man's trust enough to find out that the man had been blackmailed into withdrawing. Right ordered his group to remain where they were, and disappeared off down a hallway towards where several of the fighters had their dressing rooms. He returned a short while later, and handed a sheath of letters over to the fighter.

The second fighter proved even easier to convince to rejoin; he'd been told that Lord Harrowmont planned to concede to Bhelen. Right straightened him out on that, and the man happily swore to fight in Harrowmont's name after all.

As they walked back towards the main hall, Alistair stepped up walk by to Right's side. "So... does this mean you're planning to support Lord Harrowmont?" he asked curiously.

"No," Right said. "I'd rather not support either of them, frankly, but I need to talk to them to try and get an answer about our treaty with Orzammar. If that means playing them off against each other for a while, then I'll do what it takes."

Once back at the main hall, he approached the Proving Master, and signed up to fight; in his own name as a Grey Warden, not as a champion of Lord Harrowmont.

* * *

Right stepped out into the arena, remembering his previous appearance here, and how certain he'd been at the time that it would be the only time he was ever likely to compete in them. It amused him to find that he'd been wrong.

Of course, with the hatred he'd earned from the warrior caste with his performance that day, he wasn't in the least surprised to find that his match was against a very experienced warrior; the warriors were out for revenge, and as long as they kept within the letter of the rules, Right had little doubt that the Proving Master would happily go along with their intention of seeing him beaten today.

It almost surprised him how easily he beat his first opponent; he had to remind himself that his skills had been improving steadily ever since he'd left Orzammar, that the raw talent and brute strength he'd had before had been changed by his time away. Travel had leaned him down and hardened him; fights against darkspawn groups had given him extensive practise in working against multiple opponents; sparring with and coaching from Sten and Zevran had honed his old skills and gained him new ones, and taught him controlled use of his strength.

In the second round he was faced with two opponents. Again he handled them with ease. And the next, and the next. The watching audience fell silent for a while, incensed at seeing favourites so easily beaten, and then a few voices started cheering for Right.

In the penultimate round he was given the choice of having a partner to work with. He opted to go it alone, and again easily defeated his pair of opponents. The few cheers became many. In the final round, a team battle, with Alistair, Sten and Shale at his side, they trounced the other team as easily as they'd ever trounced darkspawn, to a roar of approval that echoed throughout the proving grounds and the commons beyond.

Yet Right realized he didn't feel any particular joy or pride over having won, or any liking for the adulation of the crowd. They'd have been as happy to see him crushed and beaten; his winning changed nothing about their attitudes toward him as a brand. Frankly he thought better of the few dissenting voices raised in boos and catcalls; _they_ at least hadn't been fickle towards their favourites.

* * *

Lady Dace frowned down at the papers in her hand, then looked angrily at Right. "Where did you get these? Never mind. It is true enough. But there is nothing I can do about it," she snapped. "This deal was made on behalf of our entire house. Only my father can revoke it."

"Where is he? I'll bring these to him," Right offered.

"He is leading a Deep Roads expedition, trying to secure an ancient thaig. It's unlikely he'll be back before the election, but perhaps this vote is important enough for you to brave the tunnels to tell him? The Dace family would be in your debt," she reluctantly admitted.

"How would I know where to find your father?" Right asked, frowning.

"He was searching an old Aeducan site.," she said briskly, then searched in the pouch at her belt and withdrew a folded paper. "He left me with this map, in case his expedition never returned. I'll give you a pass as well. Usually, no one is allowed past the front lines," she explained, and scribbled out a note, marking it with her seal.

"All right. We'll leave first thing tomorrow," Right promised her.

They stopped in to eat and drink at Tapsters again, then headed down to their rooms in Dust Town, where the group of them spent the evening preparing their gear for their expedition the next day. Right decided to leave Sten behind to guard the bulk of their things; his size alone made him an unlikely target for harassment by any of the local carta members. If Sten had any feelings one way or the other out of being left out of the proposed trip, he declined to exhibit them.

* * *

"So... are you tired?" Zevran asked quietly once the two were once again alone behind closed doors.

"A little - but not _too_ tired," Right said.

Zevran grinned happily. "Ah, that is good. Let me see what I can do to remedy that," he added, moving closer.


	37. Aeducan Thaig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right waited patiently while the Mines Commander looked over his paperwork. After a moment the man nodded reluctantly, and handed the papers back. "I see you have Lord Dace's daughter's seal, so I will not stop you," he said. "But be careful. Just because the beasts have pulled back from Orzammar doesn't mean there are any fewer in the Deep Roads. Either we finally have the edge, which I doubt, or the beasts are building up numbers for their next attack."

Right waited patiently while the Mines Commander looked over his paperwork. After a moment the man nodded reluctantly, and handed the papers back. "I see you have Lord Dace's daughter's seal, so I will not stop you," he said. "But be careful. Just because the beasts have pulled back from Orzammar doesn't mean there are any fewer in the Deep Roads. Either we finally have the edge, which I doubt, or the beasts are building up numbers for their next attack."

"Actually, they've made their move – on the surface," Right told him.

A nearby soldier frowned. "The surface!" he exclaimed. "But I thought the vermin never went up that far except..."

"Except during blights," the Mines Commander cut him off, looking grim, and gave the two Grey Wardens a questioning look. Right nodded, indicating that the man's guess was correct.

"Best of luck," he told them, and stepped aside to let them by.

Right felt strange as he approached the entrance to the Deep Roads; again he was doing something he'd only ever dreamed of as a child, something normally forbidden to the casteless – journeying into the Deep Roads, with darkspawn slaying in mind.

* * *

Right was glad they had a map; the Deep Roads were a confusing maze of tunnels, both the main roads dug as thoroughfares for the ancient trading traffic of the dwarven thaigs, and the hundreds upon hundreds of side tunnels –lesser roads, places where the miners had dug out ore or mined for gems, exploratory tunnels, places where the roads intersected natural cave systems, unmapped passages the darkspawn had delved in their centuries of tunnelling. They were able to stick to the main roads most of the time, except when rock falls forced them to take to the side passages to try and find a way around the blockage.

They hadn't been in the tunnels long before they had their first encounter with darkspawn. Thankfully just a handful of genlocks, easily defeated. After that came more darkspawn, and occasional run-ins with the odd creatures known as deep stalkers. Those could be dangerous if they attacked in high enough numbers, their odd worm-like heads having a tooth-filled sucker of a mouth that could easily sheer a sizable chunk of flesh out of a person. Some of them were also capable of spitting a caustic poison; it might not kill a person, but it could weaken and disorient someone enough for their mouths to do the rest.

The inhabitants of Dust Town had many nasty stories about what might happen to lone dusters who went exploring in the more disused portions of the lower city; stories that often featured gory deaths as deep stalkers swarmed a person and ate them alive. All Right knew was that the one time a small pack of deep stalkers had appeared in town, driven out of their subterranean tunnels by either hunger or the presence of a worse predator, they'd all ended up roasting over the fires of hungry dusters in pretty short order. They had a much stronger taste then nug – bordering on foul, depending on what they'd been eating lately – but they _were_ just as edible. Not at all capable of being domesticated though, unlike nugs and brontos.

When they finally reached Lord Dace, they found him and his men on the verge of being overwhelmed by a sizable pack of the horrible creatures. Right and his group quickly waded in, and the addition of their force to Lord Dace's turned the tide; even when a second large group of dark stalkers attacked, drawn by the scent of blood from the copious corpses of the original group, they easily cut them down.

"You pulled us from a tight spot, friend. You have my gratitude. I am Lord Anwer Dace. I heard nothing of another expedition. What brings you here so fortuitously?" he asked, looking with pointed curiosity at the brand on Right's cheek and his odd assortment of companions.

"Lord Harrowmont is trying to cheat your family," Right began, already digging in his belt pouch for the relevant papers.

Anwer frowned. "What are you talking about? I've dealt with Harrowmont many times and he's always been forthright. I'm not ungrateful for your assistance, but I hope you have some evidence to back such an accusation."

"See for yourself. I brought these promissory notes," Right told him, holding them out.

"I don't understand. What could ...?" Lord Dace began, as he took the offered papers and looked at them. He stopped abruptly, eyes bulging as an angry scowl crossed his face. "These are the terms of a deal we made with Lord Harrowmont, but... the charlatan! He's promised the exact same land to Helmi!Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I owe you twice now, my life and my house's fortune."

Right nodded. "I am glad I could be of service." he said.

"May the ancestors smile on you," Anwer said, then quickly gathered up his men and started back to Orzammar.

"Not asking for his help against Harrowmont?" Alistair asked quietly once Lord Dace was well beyond earshot.

"No. I've heard Lord Dace is fairly liberal – he believes the surface dwarves should be recognized as still being dwarves, for one – but I'm casteless. If I _asked_ for his help, he might feel honour-bound to refuse it. If I don't ask... then he's free to give me whatever help I seem to need. And besides, like I said before, I'd really prefer not to support either man. I will if I have no other choice, but... I have no idea which I'd support," Right said, looking grim again.

They explored the thaig a little more, all of them curious about the Deep Roads for different reasons. Alistair, because he knew the Calling might well bring him back here some day to die; Shale, because the mage who'd owned the golem previously had claimed to have found it somewhere down here; Right, because it was the first time he'd ever set foot in these endless tunnels that ran as much though dwarven lore and history as they did through the stone; and Zevran because they were yet another new and strange place to explore.

It was getting late and they were discussing turning back – none of them wanted to spend a night down here – when they rounded a pile of rocks and found they'd walked right up to a darkspawn encampment. Right spotted a tall form toward the back – a hurlock emissary, the usual distinctive horned helm on its head, the glow of magic already coalescing about its hands. "Mage!" he shouted, and charged forward through the gathered genlocks. Too late he saw the second emissary behind it; a genlock, easy to miss in the shadow of its taller companion until it, too, had begun to cast.

"Oh, sodding Ancestors...!" he had time to exclaim, before waves of horrible pain crashed over him and everything went black.

* * *

"Ow, my _head_ ," Right groaned, and slowly sat up, helped by a worried looking Zevran and a tired, blood-spattered Alistair. He peered blurrily around. Still at the encampment, though all the darkspawn were now messily dead, Stench nosing interestedly among the remains.

"I see I bested them even while unconscious," he said hoarsely. "I'm just that amazing."

Alistair gave a short bark of laughter. "Guess you'll live after all, if you're well enough to make jokes."

"Can you stand?" Zevran asked anxiously.

"Yeah, just... don't expect me to dance the Remigold or anything," he said, wincing as he rose to his feet, every muscle protesting. "I'm going to take this as a sign that it's past time we headed back to Orzammar," he said tiredly.

"Good call," Alistair agreed.

He needed help to walk at first; whatever had hit him had left his entire body feeling like the aftermath of the world's worst muscle cramp. Thankfully the worst of the aftereffects faded quickly, though he was still seeing double most of the way back.

* * *

Right lay sprawled on his stomach as Zevran gave him a thorough massage from head to toe, and right out to the tips of his fingers. "I knew there was some reason I let you live," Right said, smiling sleepily as the last of the painful knots relaxed. "It must have been the twelve different massage techniques that was the real selling point."

Zevran laughed softly. "And not the six different card games? How sad."

Right snorted. "Never been into cards. Not good enough to count them and I prefer my money to stay in my own pocket instead of lining someone else's."

"You know, there _are_ card games that can be played quite enjoyable without cheating," Zevran pointed out.

"Yeah, but what would be the fun in that?"

"Good point," Zevran said, and went back to massaging Right's calves and feet.

Right groaned in pleasure, then wiggled over and sat up, crossing his legs. "Come here," he said, patting the floor in front of him.

Zevran raised an eyebrow enquiringly, but complied, moving closer to kneel in front of the seated dwarf.

"No, sitting facing away from me," Right said, and smiled. "My turn to give you a massage, I think."

"Oh? I like this idea," Zevran purred, and flipped over, sitting down cross-legged with his back to the dwarf. Right hesitantly reached out, and trying to remember what Zevran usually did in the line of back massages, started working his fingers along the elf's shoulders and around the base of his neck. He must have done it more or less right; Zevran made an appreciative sound and arched his back like a cat, leaning into the pressure of Right's fingertips.

Right frowned at the scars lacing the assassin's back. Not just scars from blades, as both of them had here and there, but long thin criss-crossing marks all up and down his back. Curious, he touched one, ran his finger along it, wondering what could have left the marks.

Zevran shivered. "I never did tell you about that last mission of mine, did I?" he suddenly said. "I suppose it is time. You have been a good friend to me, after all. There is no reason to be silent," he said, and paused briefly before continuing. "There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident. My last mission before this one... did not end well," he said hesitantly.

"What happened?"

"You must realize that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often... both as an assassin and lover. One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: A wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent. Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was... a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired," he said, sighing, then fell silent. Right could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders tightening.

"And you fell in love?" he asked quietly.

Zevran nodded, once, abruptly. "Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It... frightened me. When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her," he said, pausing again before continuing, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true, I didn't care."

"But that wasn't true."

"I convinced myself it was," Zevran said, shaking his head. "Taliesen cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows. When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all. I... wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt. We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew... and they didn't care. And one day my turn would come."

"Why would he do that?" Right asked, appalled, even as he thought of a number of reasons for why someone vindictive or manipulative enough might do so.

"To rub it in my face, perhaps," Zevran said bitterly. "That I was nothing. That _she_ was nothing."

He fell silent for a while. Right continued massaging at his back and shoulders, though as tense as Zevran was now, it was an exercise in pointless activity. Except that he thought Zevran might at least find his touch... comforting.

Finally, Zevran spoke again. "You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens? And then... this happened. And here I am," he said, turning his head to look at Right over one shoulder.

"Do you still want to die?" Right asked, his hands ceasing their movement.

"No. What I want is to begin again," he said, and turned around so he was once again kneeling facing Right. "Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it," he said softly.

Right leaned forward, cupping Zevran's face in both hands, and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. Wordlessly they lay down, Right holding the elf in his arms, Zevran clinging to him, neither speaking again that night.


	38. Family Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After they got moving the next day, Right tracked down Lord Helmi. The young Lord was drinking in Tapsters, and proved surprisingly friendly, having very liberal ideas about the caste system and how it was holding back dwarven progress. Right grudgingly found himself rather liking the affable young noble. It made him feel bad, presenting him with the forged promissory notes; he didn't like fooling him like this. But, as Duncan had said – Grey Wardens did whatever it took. He gritted his teeth, and carried through on it.

After they got moving the next day, Right tracked down Lord Helmi. The young Lord was drinking in Tapsters, and proved surprisingly friendly, having very liberal ideas about the caste system and how it was holding back dwarven progress. Right grudgingly found himself rather liking the affable young noble. It made him feel bad, presenting him with the forged promissory notes; he didn't like fooling him like this. But, as Duncan had said – Grey Wardens did whatever it took. He gritted his teeth, and carried through on it.

Afterwards, they went up to the Diamond Quarter and once again sought out Vartag. He was very pleased to see them; Lady Dace had already shown up, spitting fire over the supposed duplicity of Lord Harrowmont. He very happily led the way to the palace, so they could finally meet with Prince Bhelen.

Bhelen made a point of calling Right "brother" as soon as he greeted him. It was all Right could do to conceal his instant dislike of the man. He had to remind himself repeatedly that Bhelen was his nephew's father, the patron of his sister and mother; that, if not for him, the two of them would undoubtedly still be living in Dust Town. Probably out on the street – without Right's income and influence, they wouldn't have been able to keep the rooms he'd been renting for them. As much as he hated it, this man was someone he owed something to.

Bhelen promised he'd support the treaty with the Grey Wardens – just as soon as he was king. And then outlined a plan to gather more support – or rather, for Right to gather more support for him. Take on Jarvia's cartel, and wipe them out. Right drew a long, calming breath. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

"That's all I can ask," Bhelen said, grinning cheerfully at him, and then suggested that Right might like to stop by and visit his sister and mother while he was here in the palace anyway.

Right nodded, identifying it as the subtle threat it was. Bhelen didn't _have_ to continue his relationship with Rica now that he had a son by her; he could just as easily put her aside as keep her, and without his continued patronage, the pair of them were unlikely to fare well in the cutthroat environment of the Diamond Quarter.

"I'll do that," Right said, and walked away.

* * *

Alistair glanced at Right as they walked down the hall; one of the guards, when asked, had let them know where Right's sister and mother could be found.

Alistair wondered how Right was feeling about the upcoming reunion with his mother – he knew how excited and, well, maybe a little scared, he'd be if it was him. But then he'd never known his mother, and it was only a half-year since Right had last seen his. It would likely be rather... different, then anything he'd ever imagined about meeting his own mother.

He drew his wandering thoughts back as they stopped before a closed door. Right knocked quietly. Rica answered the door, and smiled joyfully at the sight of her brother, immediately grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the room. "Oh, I was so happy when Prince Bhelen mentioned that you'd been able to help him against Lord Harrowmont already!" she exclaimed. "This is going to be so great! Just think, _me_ , the mother of the future king of Orzammar! And concubine of the current king!"

She gushed on for a while, talking about how wonderful her life was now, how it would be even more wonderful once Prince Bhelen was declared King. Alistair would be the first to admit that he knew only a little about dwarven culture and society, but he had a feeling that some of her ideas about what the future might hold for her were... perhaps... maybe... just a little on the overly optimistic side.

Right listened patiently to her chatter, nodding or making encouraging "go on" sounds at intervals, until she finally wound down. "Oh, I should go, it's almost time for my daily visit with Prince Endrin," she finally exclaimed, hugged Right, and hurried off.

A sour voice sounded from further back in the room. "I was beginning to think she was never going to shut up."

An older female dwarf stepped into view. Right and Rica's mother, Alistair presumed; she looked a lot like a much older, more shopworn version of the girl, right down to the bright red hair, though hers was liberally streaked with grey. She walked forward a few steps, stopped, looked Right over from head to toe. "Well, look at you all fancied up... Did the prince decide he likes boys, or did you find some other way to bring in coin?" she sneered.

Alistair's eyes widened in shock. Had she really just suggested what he thought she had...!

Right ignored the caustic words, and walked over to her, taking her hands in his and leaning in to gently kiss her cheek. "I'm a Grey Warden now, Mother," he said quietly.

"Right. Rica told me that once, I think..." she said, trailing off, then frowned, an angry scowl crossing her face. "Running off to the surface, just like your father! Never thought to share a little of that fortune with your mother?"

"Doesn't Rica take care of you?" Right asked, frowning.

"Oh, sure. Rica's the _greatest_. Rica moved us into the palace, made everything _perfect_ , right?" she sneered. "I've seen how they look at me. Think I'm gutter trash. Not one of them would let me step foot here if it wasn't for Rica! Precious Rica and her precious little brat! If he chokes on that gold rattle, we'd both be on the street!"

Right titled his head sideways, his frown deepening. "You're drinking again, aren't you?" he asked, voice still gentle.

"Heh. You know what they keep up here? They got wine from the surface, ale, brandy... They got a whole room of it. An' nobody's gonna stop me taking it, because _I'm_ the brat's _grandmother_."

Right looked unhappy. "If I was here... I'd stop you," he said quietly.

She stood still a moment, then gave him a strange look. "You would, wouldn't you..." she said, voice uncharacteristically soft for a moment, then her mood changed again, the angry scowl returning to her face. "You think I don't got the right to be happy? You think I don't deserve what everyone else has? You think _you_ deserve them fancy clothes? You're never gonna be nothing but Dust Town! Just like me."

Abruptly she pulled her hands free from his. "Well, who needs you, anyway? Why would I miss you? What'd you ever do but make me fat and old and ugly?" she snarled, then to Alistair's surprise grabbed Right and gave him a fierce hug. "Rica and I are doing fine here, just fine!" she continued, then pushed him away. "Get out of here!"

Without waiting for any response she turned and stalked off out of sight into the back again. Right stood watching her go, then led the way out of the room, silently.

Alistair followed, feeling thoroughly confused. Part of him wanted to ask Right to explain what that had all been about, but one glance at the closed look on the dwarf's face made him keep his mouth firmly shut. Now was not the time – if there ever was a good time to ask someone about a scene like what he'd just witnessed.


	39. Treachery and Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They headed back down to the commons after they'd left the palace. Right was silent the entire way, a frown on his face. He led them directly to Tapsters, and there sought out Dulin.

They headed back down to the commons after they'd left the palace. Right was silent the entire way, a frown on his face. He led them directly to Tapsters, and there sought out Dulin.

They found him seated in a booth in back, a scowl on his face and a half-drunken tankard of ale in front of him. The scowl deepened when Right slid into the seat across from him without invitation.

"I've heard about the lies you spread to Lady Dace and Lord Helmi," Dulin all but spat the words. "I have nothing to say to the likes of _you_."

"I can explain," Right said, calmly folding his hands together on top of the table.

"You've made it perfectly clear whose side you're on!" Dulin growled.

"I needed to know my sister – Bhelen's concubine – was safe," Right replied, voice still calm and reasonable. "And Bhelen wouldn't have trusted me if I came to you first."

Dulin looked up sharply. "Ah. I heard he had brought a noble-hunter into his house. I didn't realize you were related. But if so, I can't see why you'd turn against him now. If you want Lord Harrowmont to believe you would side against your own sister's family, you'll have to prove your loyalty." Dulin frowned thoughtfully, then continued. "Bhelen's already sent you to attack Lord Harrowmont's support. What has he asked of you next?"

"Bhelen wants me to shut down Jarvia's carta."

"A shrewd move. If Bhelen can take credit for shutting down Jarvia, it will buy him more support than any speech. Yet given Bhelen's own experiences with Dust Town, that might give us a better opportunity than it appears... Lord Harrowmont believes Bhelen hired Jarvia's thugs to kill his brother Trian. Casteless sell-swords he disposed of after the murder. If you could prove Bhelen hired these thugs, _prove_ he sent casteless men to kill a royal prince... Let's say that might change a few votes."

Right nodded. "I'll see what I can find," he agreed.

"If you find anything incriminating, bring it to me and I'll get you an audience with Lord Harrowmont," Dulin promised.

Right nodded, rose to his feet, and walked away.

"Back to Dust Town," he said quietly as they left.

* * *

They were starting across the square to the building their rooms were in when Right came to an abrupt stop. A dwarf stood near the fire pit, facing them with arms crossed, clearly waiting for something. A broad grin crossed his face as he spotted them. "Right!" he called.

"Leske!" Right exclaimed, and hurried over, the two exchanging a back-slapping hug in greeting. "It's great to see you!"

"Heard through the grapevine that you were back, and looking for me," Leske said. "So, what are you doing here? Not crawling back to die in the Deep Roads, I hope?"

"Just hoping to catch up with you," Right said, grinning happily.

"Well, I'm glad I caught you first, duster, because I've been keeping out of sight since you took off."

"So you're not in the carta anymore?" Right asked, frowning.

"Stone, no! You think Jarvia'd give me a hug and kiss for taking down her lover?" Leske exclaimed. "I even talked about taking over when he was gone; you think she can't smell that?"

"Can you tell me what happened to the carta after I left?" Right asked.

"Jarvia didn't waste a day. Apparently, killing all possible competitors was her way of mourning. She made some kind of deal with Beraht's family topside, claimed to be his wife, and kept the whole lyrium trade flowing. But Endrin's death really opened new ground. All of a sudden, guardsmen were all busy in the Diamond Quarter. Jarvia moved right in."

"Where could I find her?"

"Bad idea, my friend," Leske said, shaking his head. "You know she and Beraht were lovers – she still blames us for his death. I'm sure she's heard you're back in town by now. What do you want her for?"

"Unfinished business. I don't think she's any more likely to leave me alone then you do, and unfortunately I don't have much choice about remaining in Orzammar for a while. I'll have to deal with her sooner or later, and I'd rather do it on _my_ timing."

Leske glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Look, she'd kill me if she knew I know this, but after Bhelen took Rica up-city, the carta laid claim to your old home. They put a back entrance in. It just goes to some storage tunnels, but there's probably a way into Beraht's old estate from there. Now I'd better get out of here before anyone sees us together. But, uh, tell me how it turns out."

Leske and Right clasped wrists, then Leske hurried off, disappearing into the winding pathways heading off from the square.

Right stood a moment, looking after him with a frown on his face, then shook himself back into motion. "A back entrance into where we've been staying?" he said. "I really don't like the sound of that."

* * *

There was no sign of Sten or their belongings when they walked into their rooms. Instead, they found a group of dwarven thugs waiting for them.

The leader of the group smirked at them. "Jarvia said you were looking for trouble. Congratulations – you've found it," he said, then signalled his men to attack.

Right's group were drawings their weapons before the man had finished speaking; the attack was met with a counter-attack of their own, Zevran and Right each taking out a man while Alistair took on the leader, Stench and Shale knocking down and easily killing another of the thugs.

The leader's eyes widened in shock at how easily his men had been killed. With a cry he leaped backwards, dropping his weapons and holding up his hands in surrender. "D-don't kill me! Sodding ancestors, what do they teach you on the surface! You fight like a bleedin' archdemon!" he cried. "I was just doing what Leske asked! Said Jarvia gave the word to make sure you never left."

"Leske's working for Jarvia?" Right asked, scowling.

"He told us he'd get you here. All we had to do was take you out. You don't disobey Leske, you know? He's Jarvia's top man!"

"I can't believe it..." Right said, voice trailing off, then sighed. Actually, he could - all too easily. "Where is he now?"

"A-at the base, I guess. With Jarvia. That's where he usually is. The base is below the city. Y-you can get to it through the wall of the third house on this row. Put this token through the slot and it'll open," the thug said, shakily fishing something out his belt pouch and handing it over to Right.

"Will... will you let me go now?" he begged. " I got a kid. I got no other way to bring in coin..."

"Yes, go on, get out of here. And you don't want to be at Jarvia's when I get there." Right said threateningly.

"R-really? Oh, thank you! You're a... a good person. How do they say it? The ancestors have shown their favour. Bless you!" he exclaimed, and hurried away.

Right looked at the object in his hand – it looked like a bit of bone, with something scratched into it on one end – then tossed it in the end and caught it.

"Looks like I get to wipe out the Carta for the second time in less then a year," he said. "Come on, let's go."

* * *

The fingerbone opened the door, as promised. A short tunnel down brought them out into a large room, where they met the first resistance. After that it was pretty much a running fight through the place, groups of thugs rushing them out of side rooms and from cross-tunnels, with barely a moment free to catch their breaths.

It reminded him of his escape from here the year before, of course, only... more. More people to fight, more people that had to be killed, more people, thankfully, on _his_ side too.

He noticed that Jarvia had been spreading out in more then one way; the carta had always been an all-dwarf organization before. Now its numbers included mercenaries from the surface; qunari, mainly, looking very out of place in the low-ceilinged corridors, an elven mage or two, an so forth.

At first it was all unfamiliar ground to him, parts of the headquarters he'd never seen during his escape. And then they reached the jails, where they spotted Sten locked up in a cell, a heavy guard of dwarfs waiting for them.

Had he and his companions been no better then the silver-a-dozen thug he'd been the year before, the force gathered there might have been formidable; instead, they were cut down with almost sickening ease. Right riffled the body of the jailor, finding the key for the cell doors, and set Sten free.

Their missing belongings were piled in a corner of the room. They paused for long enough that Sten could arm and armour himself, and for everyone to catch their breaths, sip at water, or nibble a bit of dried meat or fruit. Right just stood quietly, looking around at the cells. He'd been in that one; and Leske in _that_ , the one Sten had been in. They'd fought their way out, together, partners as they'd been partners since Beraht had first matched them up when Right joined the carta. And now...

Well, he could hardly blame Leske for what had happened since he'd left. _He'd_ gotten out of here, but Leske had been left behind, one of the two who'd decimated the carta's ranks. It was more surprising that he hadn't just been killed outright, then that he'd been recruited by Jarvia. She'd never been one to waste resources, and Leske probably had a pretty nasty reputation as a result of that night's work.

He just wished it could have been otherwise.

* * *

It was a fight through familiar territory after that; rooms and corridors he and Leske had fought through half a year ago. As they hewed their way through wave after wave of attackers, Right wondered if Leske and Jarvia had any realization of just what they'd unleashed on the carta. Probably not. They probably pictured him as being just like he'd been when he'd left; a good tough fighter, but not anything to get particularly worried about, not if you threw enough bodies in his way.

Now... well, he knew how much his companions excelled at fighting. And... he was beginning to realize that _he_ was almost that good now, too. As they fought on, a strange mood came over him. He felt almost detached, as if some part of him had stepped back and was watching their fights, rather then participating in them. Watching, seeing how effortlessly they worked together, how unstoppable they seemed.

Alistair and Sten were drawing most of the attacks their way, as usual. Alistair was shouting and banging his shield, and hacking away one-handed with his sword. Sten waded into the thick of things, the impassive expression on his face as his massive two-handed sword rose and fell and rose again more frightening then any menacing scowl would have been.

Zevran was a non-stop whirl of motion, blades licking out in sudden flashing movements that seemed to almost magically slash throats, plunge into offered backs, cut hands so that weapons fell from nerveless fingers. Swords that tried to hit him missed, as he dipped and ducked and dodged, sometimes leaping into the air so that they passed right under him, a fierce grin of enjoyment on his face.

Shale, a nightmare figure, gore dripping from its stoney exterior, blades striking sparks as they scraped along it without damaging it, arrows splintering as they bounced harmlessly off it. And unlike humans, who usually had qualms about stepping on the fallen – even fallen enemies – the golem didn't particularly care what was underfoot.

Stench, bounding around the edges, lunging in to sink teeth into ankle or wrist, or knocking people to the ground and worrying at their throats.

And Right, in the middle of it too, maybe not quite as flashy a fighter as Zevran, not as nightmarish as Shale, not as noticeable as Alistair and Sten... but there, doing his job, dealing death as efficiently as he could.

Eventually they reached a door he recognized. He and Leske had found Beraht behind it so many months ago; he was certain that he'd find Leske and Jarvia behind it now.

He paused a moment, looked around at his companions, was startled to realize how thankful he was for their presence; how much he appreciated them being here. Even Alistair, who for all the friction between the two of them, never let it affect how well he did his job.

"One last room," Right said quietly. "They'll be ready for us."

They nodded, watching him attentively. Waiting for _him_ to take the lead, to give the signal. He opened the door, and stepped through.

* * *

He never saw who killed Leske; he only knew it hadn't been any of _his_ thrusts that had dealt the killing blow; he'd kept away from him in the fight, concentrating on Jarvia instead, not wanting to be the one to kill his old partner. By the precision of the blow, he suspected Zevran had done it; a single upward thrust, in through the stomach, up under the rib cage, and straight into the heart.

It had been a nasty fight; Jarvia had the room well-trapped, and archers ranged along the walls as well as a hand-picked group of her best thugs. She'd blustered and threatened, but he could see the fear in her eyes; she hadn't expected them to get this far. He just stared silently at Leske, trying to ignore how much it hurt to find himself on the opposite side from him.

"Leske – kill him!" she finally ordered. The two groups exploded into movement, Right ignoring everything else to head straight for Jarvia. He'd fought her alone, trusting the others to deal with everyone else, tuning out the arrows whipping by, the shouts and screams, only seeing her in front of him. She'd fallen a lot faster then he'd expected her too; by then Leske was already down and dead, and they just had a few final thugs to mop up. Then it was over, the carta once again finished with, at least until someone else stepped up to rebuild it all over again. Right had little doubt that the first few candidates would start fighting it out the moment the carnage here was discovered and word began to spread.

A search of Jarvia's body turned up a key to a small office off to one side; in a chest there he found documents that outlined an agreement exactly like Lord Harrowmont's man had described; an arrangement for the death of Bhelen's eldest brother, Prince Trian, at the hands of a force of casteless thugs, said thugs to be disposed of afterwards so that they could never speak of what they'd done.

More documents too; other contracts and agreements, and some love letters, by the look of them. He took those along as well, to go over later.

On the way out he paused by Leske's body, and stood looking down at it for a long moment, remembering how close they'd been as partners. Years of teamwork, and in one short half-year away... all gone. He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned his head to find Zevran behind him.

"Let's go," he said tiredly, and led them out.


	40. Another Favour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right paused as they emerged in the commons. There was still so much to do, and it had been a very long, strenuous day already. But it couldn't be long before someone discovered the slaughter in the carta headquarters, and word began to spread, and he had only a small window of opportunity to try and speak to Dulin before Prince Bhelen would begin to get suspicious over his absence.

Right paused as they emerged in the commons. There was still so much to do, and it had been a very long, strenuous day already. But it couldn't be long before someone discovered the slaughter in the carta headquarters, and word began to spread, and he had only a small window of opportunity to try and speak to Dulin before Prince Bhelen would begin to get suspicious over his absence.

He sent Zevran – the elf was the cleanest of them all – off to Tapsters with the papers about Bhelen's agreement with Jarvia, while he and the rest tried to remain as inconspicuous as they could, in a darkened corner near where the concealed exit from the hideout emerged. Zevran eventually returned, the dwarf following a few minutes later.

"You certainly can't go see Lord Harrowmont looking like _that_ ," Dulin exclaimed, looking over their blood-stained clothing. "You're hardly inconspicuous!"

"I know," Right agreed. "And I have to go see Bhelen first anyway; he'll get suspicious if I don't report to him about the elimination of the carta soon. If I can get away later tonight, can you get me in to talk to Lord Harrowmont?"

Dulin frowned, then reluctantly nodded. "I suppose I can," he said. "Though you'd best leave the travelling circus behind; it'll be hard enough getting you in to see him discretely without all of _them_ along," he added, nodding towards the not-inconsiderable bulk of Alistair, Shale and Sten.

Right nodded tiredly. "All right. See you later tonight, then."

After giving Dulin a few minutes to leave the area, he gathered up his group and set off across the commons towards the lift to the Diamond Quarter. They drew an unfortunate amount of interest pretty quickly; it was all-too-obvious that they'd been in a very messy fight.

As they approached the lift, a couple of guards hurried forward and barred their way. "You can't go to the Diamond Quarter looking like that!" one exclaimed.

"What have you people been up to?" the other demanded, giving their bedraggled state a suspicious look.

Right straightened, and put his hands on his hips. "Stand aside," he said in a carrying voice. "We go to the palace to report to Prince Bhelen that the carta has been eliminated, as he ordered."

"What! The carta eliminated!" exclaimed one of the guards even as the first whisper of spreading gossip began to pass through the people crowding the commons.

In fairly short order the guards stood aside, allowing Right and his group to continue on, gossip spreading before and behind them. The carta was gone – dead – eliminated! - by the dwarven Grey Warden and his odd group of companions. At Prince Bhelen's orders!

* * *

Prince Bhelen greeted their arrival with an exceptionally toothy grin. "Well, you've simply outdone yourself," he said. "They're talking all over the city about how someone finally went through Dust Town and slaughtered the carta like genlocks."

He paused, then frowned slightly. "Killing Jarvia will bring me greater favour, but to truly displace Harrowmont, we'll need something dramatic enough to end the debate forever. What do you know of the Paragon Branka?"

Right shrugged. "She was a smith and inventor," he said.

"Two years ago, she heard of something the ancients created. It inspired her to leave everything behind and venture into the Deep Roads. She is the only Paragon in four generations - anyone with her support could take the throne unchallenged."

Right sighed. "Let me guess... you want me to go into the Deep Roads and find her."

Prince Bhelen smiled. "I see you're an intelligent man."

"I will find her for you," Right promised. "But my men and I need rest first, and the place we were staying is no longer safe..."

"Say no more. I'll arrange rooms for you right here in the palace; the recent deaths in my family have left us with many vacancies, sadly."

Right nodded, and let himself be ushered away.

* * *

Right eyed the spotless coverlet on the bed, then lowered himself to the floor instead, lying down with arms outspread. "Oh, ancestors, my _back_..." he groaned. "I'm sore all over."

Zevran stepped over to his side and stood looking down at him, amused. "Is this a request, my friend?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking.

Right groaned again. "I wish. No. I need you to scout around and find us a way out of this place. Clean yourself up first, I think even _you_ would find it hard to be inconspicuous in your present state. I can take my turn while you're scouting."

Zevran grinned. "Your wish is my command," he said, and disappeared off into the bathing chamber, shedding stained and sweaty clothing as he walked.

Right actually dozed off for a while, there on the floor. He woke to find Zevran nudging him in the ribs with the sole of his foot, a slight smile on his lips. Zevran was clean from head to toe, his hair washed and rebraided, wearing tight dark pants, low sueded boots, and a loose white shirt that contrasted sharply with the dark tan of his skin. He didn't look in the least tired.

Right blinked crusty eyes, and drew in a breath, scowling as he became all too aware of the stink of himself; sweat, blood, and other, more noisome things. "I hate you," he muttered.

Zevran laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "It may take a while to figure out a suitable exit, and of course it would be best if it included a way for a discrete re-entrance."

Right grunted, rolling to one side and painfully levering himself to his feet. "Be careful," he said.

"Always," Zevran promised, and disappeared out the door.

Right headed off to bathe, and to hunt through his belongings for something comfortable to wear as well; his armour was going to need a thorough cleaning before he put it on again. One more thing to get done before sleeping tonight.

* * *

"The word publicly is that you support my enemy, but Dulin promises you've sworn yourself to us," Lord Harrowmont said, eyeing Right speculatively. "I am Lord Pyral Harrowmont and I would hear this in your own words. Is it true?"

"I'll side with whoever I need to get troops," Right told him.

"I would have preferred that you come to me _before_ slandering me to some of the highest placed families in Orzammar," Lord Harrowmont said, frowning, then touched a packet of papers on his desk. "But with this evidence of Bhelen's depravity, we should be able to work out a mutual arrangement, if not trust. If you truly wish to take my side, I ask that you do one more thing for me. Do you know anything of the Paragon Branka?"

"Bhelen asked me the same thing," Right said dryly.

Pyral snorted. "I wish I could say I'm surprised, but he's managed to stay one step ahead through this whole game, hasn't he? I assume he seeks the same thing I do. Branka's word is the one way to break the Assembly's deadlock. If you bring her back to endorse me for king, then I could finally take the throne... and get the troops you're so eager for."

Right nodded. "If it will get you the throne, I will find Branka," he promised.

"Good. My men traced Branka's disappearance to an ancient crossroads known as Caridin's Cross. It is many miles below where we normally venture, but I can provide a map to lead you there. Just enter the Deep Roads through the mines. Thank you again. And may the ancestors guide your steps."

Right nodded, and exited the room. Zevran was waiting outside with Dulin, who led them to the same discrete side entrance they'd used to enter the Harrowmont Estate. From there it was a circuitous route to return to and re-enter the Palace without notice, and slip back to their room.

"What time is it?" Right asked, standing in the middle of the floor and frowning. He was so tired his head was spinning.

"Well after midnight, my friend."

"Damn. Forget about leaving tomorrow; we'll take a day to rest. We'll need time to clean our gear and gather supplies for the Deep Roads anyway. And maps! And if I can track down some of the Legion of the Dead who are willing to talk with me, maybe see what they have to say about conditions down there..."

"That sounds like a fine plan – for tomorrow. For tonight, I think it's time you lay down and had some rest."

Right nodded. Blinked eyes that as well as being sandy were suddenly wet. "Not sure I can. Rest, I mean. I keep seeing Leske's face..."

Zevran took him by the arm and led him over to the bed, sitting him down and undressing him like a child, and then holding him comfortingly until he finally slept, as he had held Zevran just the night before.

* * *

In the end, it took two days for them to be well-outfitted enough to be ready to enter the Deep Roads. The first day was spent in preparing their gear and figuring out what they needed for a lengthy expedition down into the tunnels, the second in gathering everything they'd need, and talking with people experienced in the Deep Roads to get a better idea of what they could expect to encounter down there.

In late afternoon, Right found himself being accosted on the street by an obviously drunken dwarf. "Stranger! Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts? I heard tell that he... or was that she – you understand, this was several flagons ago – was setting out to search for Branka on the prince's own orders."

"I am the Grey Warden, and that would be 'he'," Right answered dryly. "Well, if you're the best they've got, then standards must have fallen way down. But I suppose that would account for that pack of surfacers you've got with you. Say, could I ask you a favour?"

Right sighed. "Why not? Everyone else does."

The dwarf nodded, and hooked his thumbs in his weapon belt, giving Right a belligerent look."Name's Oghren, and if you've ever heard of me before, it's probably all been about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong. And that's mostly true, but the part they never say is how I'm the only one still trying to save our only Paragon. And if you're looking for Branka, I'm the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her. You, presumably, know everything Bhelen's scouts have discovered about where she disappeared. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka. Otherwise, good sodding luck."

Right crossed his arms. "Go one," he said encouragingly.

"You should know that Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void, the secret to building golems, which was lost centuries ago. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the Anvil. As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she knew was that it was past Caridin's Cross. No one's seen that thaig for five hundred years."

"Why do you care so much about Branka, anyway?" Right asked.

"Why? We were sodding _married_ until she left me and took our whole house into the Deep Roads on her mad quest for the Anvil. It was a stupid move. If I'd been with her, she'd have made it back years ago. But I forgive her. Now am I in, or what?"

"I don't know. Will you behave yourself?"

"It's the Deep Roads. I'll kill darkspawn. Outside of that, what difference does it make? Branka was a brilliant girl, but half the time she'd add two and two and make it fifty. You want to find her, you need someone who knows how she thinks."

"All right. Sounds like we have a deal," Right agreed. "We're staying at the palace tonight, and setting out for the Deep Roads tomorrow. You can either meet us there tonight, or at the entrance tomorrow."

"I'll meet you at the entrance tomorrow, then – those sodding guards standing around everywhere in the palace give me the willies," he said, and wandered off, a beery belch his only farewell.


	41. Darkspawn and Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Yes, I'm taking considerable creative liberties with the party makeup in-story for this section. It just doesn't make _sense_ that they'd leave anyone behind when going on an extended trip through some of the most dangerous territory in all of Ferelden. In-game I'm doing a lot of trips back to Orzammar to shuffle people around in order to have the group makeup I want on hand for various bits of it all.**

**Yes, I'm taking considerable creative liberties with the party makeup in-story for this section. It just doesn't make _sense_ that they'd leave anyone behind when going on an extended trip through some of the most dangerous territory in all of Ferelden. In-game I'm doing a lot of trips back to Orzammar to shuffle people around in order to have the group makeup I want on hand for various bits of it all.**

* * *

Their trip through the Deep Roads was the sort of thing that, if Right hadn't already been suffering from horrendous darkspawn-inspired nightmares, would have given him some. The trip started easily enough, with a long but fairly easy trek to Caridin's Cross, encountering just an occasional roaming darkspawn or small pack of deep stalkers along the way. This was all territory that had been recently cleared by the scouts of Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont in their separate bids to trace the location of Paragon Branka, and it would be a while until it was reclaimed again by the darkspawn.

After that things got a little trickier; as it had been for the dwarves in their time, Caridin's Cross was a major crossroads for the darkspawn now. It wasn't long after reaching its vicinity before they had their first major encounter with a sizable group of darkspawn, in a large cavern split in half by an underground river, a natural stone bridge linking the two sides. They only saw a few darkspawn at first, but as they fought, more appeared, and more, many of them standing back and firing arrows at the group. Not with any great accuracy, thankfully, but between the seemingly never-ending waves of genlocks and the constant rain of arrows whiffling past their heads, things started to seem pretty grim.

And then a very powerful emissary came out of nowhere, and things went pear-shaped pretty darn fast.

Alistair went down fast, the emissary having cast a death magic spell on him. With him down, Sten seemed to be attracting the bulk of the attacks, and was barely keeping on his feet, genlocks and hurlocks battering him repeatedly. Oghren was screaming like he'd lost his mind, and winnowing away at the tightly-packed darkspawn around Sten with his battle axe, while Shale punched and kicked at the seething mass of them.

"Zevran – do something about those archers; I'm going for the emissary," Right ordered, and fought out of the encircling mass of bodies, cursing as he collected a fine set of bruises and cuts on his way.

The emissary got off another spell as he darted across the cavern floor toward it, a sizzling ball of energy streaking through the air and past him. He heard Sten cry out in pain, but didn't dare look back. He heard claws skittering against the stone behind him, Stench's low growl, and knew he at least had one helper for dealing with the hurlock mage.

Stench leapt high and bowled the hurlock over, teeth already going for its throat as Right laid into it with sword and dagger. A couple of nearby genlock archers changed their focus from the group to him, but they were too late; the hurlock gave a final bubbling cry and lay dead. Grimly, Right and Stench moved towards the archers.

He fought on, killing darkspawn after darkspawn. He reached the foot of the bridge at last, and glanced around, worried that the others were all down already, that it was just him and the dog left standing. Then Shale charged up on his left, and a moment later Zevran appeared to his right, blood sheeting down his face from a nasty-looking cut on his forehead, but otherwise fine.

The four fought on, clearing the bridge. For a moment Right thought they might have earned a brief breathing space, and then shrieks appear around them, already moving to attack. He cursed tiredly, and they fought on, the battle continuing across the cavern floor, towards where a cluster of torches and fires marked a second darkspawn encampment.

More darkspawn fell to the ground, and more. The pressure finally eased, only a last pitiful handful of genlocks still on their feet and fighting. The end seemed in sight.

And then something stirred in the darkness beyond the camp site. A huge shadowy form rose to its feet, roared, and stamped into the fire-lit circle.

"Ogre!" Right cried.

The remaining genlocks made a concerted attack on Shale, trying to pull the golem down. They failed at that, but they did keep Shale too distracted to help with the ogre. Instead Zevran, Right and Stench had to deal with it, the two rogues taunting it in turn. Any time it turned to chase one of them, the other would move in, stabbing and slashing at its back until it turned again, then backing hurriedly while the other took a turn at damaging it. Stench bounded around, darting in when he could, worrying at its ankles, trying to ham-string it as he might a smaller foe, but defeated by the sheer size of it; he couldn't get a good enough grip.

Then Zevran took a running jump at it, knocking it over onto his back, his two blades shining as they slashed the creatures throat open before he buried his sword to the hilt in its chest.

Right looked around. Shale was just lifting its foot from the last of the genlocks. They'd done it; slaughtered them all, every single darkspawn in the entire huge cavern.

Almost staggering with exhaustion, Right crossed back over to the other side, looking for Alistair, Sten and Oghren. The three were variously wounded, but all proved to still be alive.

"We'll have to make camp here," Right said tiredly, looking around. "There," he said, pointing to a place along the river where the drop-off and the cavern walls formed a small pinched-off lobe, approachable only from one direction. If more darkspawn came, at least they'd only be able to attack from the one side.

* * *

They ended up having to camp there for a couple of days before everyone was well enough to move on. They were more wary after that, not just charging blindly in but taking their time, trying to be sure of how many they were facing before committing to battle, and trying to use the terrain against their opponents; no more getting out in the middle of large areas where they might be surrounded, far better to lure the darkspawn into close quarters where they could only attack from one, maybe two directions, and were close-packed enough that they fouled each other's attacks while being easy prey for Sten's massive swings, or Zevran's whirlwind-like attacks.

After passing through the crossroads they reached Ortan Thaig. Oghren swore he saw signs of Branka everywhere, though the rest of them couldn't see the difference between the chipped spots on the walls and floor that he pointed to, and other chipped spots that he totally ignored.

They proceeded cautiously, soon coming to another fall of earth and stone blocked the main road, an ogre sprawled out on the ground before it. They approached cautiously, weapons at the ready.

Zevran suddenly straightened up. "It's already dead," he said. They walked over and looked at it, wondering what had killed it; it was freshly dead enough to only smell of itself, not of corruption, but there didn't seem to be any noticeable injuries.

Zevran crouched down and pointed at the back of its neck. "Look. A bite mark, I think... and this discolouration in the skin around it. Poison of some kind."

Right frowned. He didn't like the thought of there being something down here that was capable of killing an ogre with a single poisonous bite. "Keep an eye out for anything unusual," he said as they prepared to move into the side tunnels to work their way around the blockage. "I'd rather not be surprised by whatever took that ogre out."

* * *

Alistair watched as Right and Zevran checked over another darkspawn corpse – the third they'd stumbled over so far.

"Also poisoned," Zevran judged, pointing out a puncture in the genlock's arm. "I do not like this. I prefer that the poisoned weapons all be on _my_ side of things."

"You and me both," Right agreed, and they moved on, the rogues and Stench scouting a little ahead while Alistair and Sten followed, trying to keep their clanking to a minimum so that Right and Zevran would have a chance to hear anything moving around ahead of them before they encountered it, Shale behind them, moving with surprising silence for something so large and rock-like.

They paused at the entrance to a small cavern, eyeing a couple more genlock corpses lying sprawled a little in from the tunnel. Right moved toward one of them, and suddenly there were dark forms plummeting down from the ceiling around him. Spiders – giant ones, standing taller then the dwarf on their eight nimble legs, their sets of dark eyes glittering with reflected light as they lunged to attack the group. Thankfully their previous encounters with giant spiders in the tunnels beneath the Tower of Ishal meant that they already knew how to deal with them; they cut them down with ruthless efficiency before moving further into the warren of tunnels, soon hearing the sounds of combat ahead, and reaching a second, much larger cavern where a group of darkspawn were being swarmed by more of the oversized arachnids. Even as they watched, a peculiarly coloured spider leapt onto the back of an ogre, sinking its mandibles into its neck. The ogre bellowed, and fell to its knees, disappearing under a flood of shiny chitinous bodies.

"I vote we let them kill each other off, and then deal with whatever is left behind," Zevran suggested.

"Too late for that," Right said, gesturing – the poisonous spider was scuttling straight for them, the other spiders abandoning the corpse of the ogre to follow.

It was a hectic battle after that, fighting spiders, a second ogre, genlocks, hurlocks and shrieks all at once. They were all exhausted by the time they last spider died.

"Let's make camp," Right said, and after a brief glance around, led them into a short dead-end tunnel to one side of the cavern.

* * *

Alistair looked up as the dwarf sat down beside him, surprised that he'd do so. Granted things weren't quite as strained between them any more as they'd been previously, that was as much because they'd been avoiding each others company as anything else.

"Something on your mind?" Alistair asked, fighting to keep an edge of hostility out of his voice.

"Yeah. I want to apologize for what I said before," Right said. "I _do_ care what you think, you know, even if we didn't exactly start off on the right foot."

Alistair stared. Right was apologizing? To _him_! "You do? What do you know – wishes really _do_ come true some times," he found himself saying sarcastically before he could stop himself.

Right rose to his feet. "Or you could just be an ass," he said, and turned and walked away again.

Alistair bit his lip, suddenly feeling deeply ashamed. The dwarf had made a peace offering, and he'd spurned it. And the part that stung the most was realizing that maybe _he_ should have been the one doing the apologizing in the first place, not Right. In the time since their blow-up he'd come to realize that there was a small chance – no, he mentally corrected himself, a _good_ chance – that he'd been in the wrong all along about the dwarf and his motivations. Which meant that it had been _him_ in the wrong when he'd so angrily confronted Right those many weeks ago.

"Open mouth, insert foot," he muttered to himself. He'd have to figure out a way to make it right; he couldn't just leave it like this between them. Not any more.


	42. Ghosts and Golems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They pressed on the next day, finally finding their way out of the spider-haunted tunnels and to the ruins of Ortan Thaig. There they encountered even more spiders, as well as the ghosts of long-dead dwarves, and several golems. And, perhaps strangest of all, a dwarf living there among the ruins.

They pressed on the next day, finally finding their way out of the spider-haunted tunnels and to the ruins of Ortan Thaig. There they encountered even more spiders, as well as the ghosts of long-dead dwarves, and several golems. And, perhaps strangest of all, a dwarf living there among the ruins.

He wasn't part of Branka's expedition – Oghren would have recognized him if he was. It was difficult to question him; he was suffering from the effects of eating darkspawn flesh, further complicated by what was likely lyrium poisoning, and his words and thoughts rambled. His name was Ruck, and it sounded like he'd been part of an expedition and become separated from them during a battle, or possibly run away after killing someone; his words on the matter weren't exactly clear enough to tell.

He talked of "dark ones", and of the giant spiders, and after some prompting showed them some of the things he'd found in his explorations of the ruins. Nothing that was obviously connected to Branka, but Oghren was certain that the dead-end side tunnel the dwarf apparently lived in had at some time recently been the site of a sizable dwarf encampment; he felt certain Branka's household must have camped there.

"I think that's all we're going to get out of him," Right said after a while, frowning as he watched the dwarf twitching and mumbling to himself. "We should move on."

"I am not what one would call a sympathetic man, but seeing him like this pains me," Zevran said. "We should at least put him out of his misery. His mind is gone, and his body will soon follow. I have seen victims of poisoning in better shape. I hate to say it, but leaving him alive is crueler than just killing him."

"I hate to agree with the elf, but he's probably right," Oghren spoke up as well. "Look at him; he's like a pale mud-worm. I'd put him out of his misery."

Right nodded grim agreement; at least they could give him a clean death. Left as he was, he'd eventually either turn into a ghoul, or be killed and eaten by darkspawn or spiders - and not necessarily in that order.

Ruck's eyes widened in fear. "No! Do not hurt Ruck!" he exclaimed, drawing his weapons. He didn't put up much of a defence; with the taint weakening and maddening him, he was barely capable of holding his weapons properly, much less using them in any organized fashion. It was over in seconds.

They moved on after that, none of them wanting to linger where the pitiful creature had met its end.

* * *

The dwarf had spoken of a nesting place of the spiders; not long after leaving the ruins of the Thaig, they found it. Or perhaps it found them, judging by the way spiders boiled out of hiding. The worst part was that the spiders weren't alone; they actually had a pair of genlock emissaries fighting alongside them. Right wondered if they darkspawn were somehow allies of the spiders, or if the spiders had captured and somehow enslaved them. As the spiders were not exactly something you could ask questions of, and the genlocks were in no condition to be interrogated either by the time the battle ended, Right reluctantly decided it was one of those things he'd likely never have an answer for.

Remembering something Ruck had said about the spiders carrying off things to put in their eggs, he headed over to have a look at the clusters of egg sacs hanging in the centre of the nest. As he approached, another spider dropped down from the ceiling, easily half again as large as any they'd previously encountered. It put up a vicious defence of its eggs, helped by a last few spiders that came hurrying out of hiding to join it, but in the end they slaughtered it as well. A quick examination of the egg sacs found nothing more useful then a stained and corroded amulet caught in the silken cocoon of one of them.

"We should burn these," Right suggested, looking at the sacs and calculating how many hundreds of spiders might eventually hatch out of their egg-packed interiors.

"Hey! Over here!" Oghren called from where he'd been poking around, exploring the cavern. They hurried over, and found a small stone bench, well-draped in cobwebs, a large book lying open on top. "That's Branka's journal, I'd recognize it anywhere," Oghren explained.

They gathered around, clearing off the webs and dust, and Right read the last few entries aloud; by the sound of it, Branka and her household had continued even further into the Deep Roads, planning to reach the Dead Trenches and pass beyond them to where Branka believed the Anvil of the Void could be found.

"All right, we might as well make camp here before continuing on," Right said. "It's a long trip from here to there."

* * *

Right settled back against a stalagmite, backpack at his side, and started looking over some of the books and scrolls he'd found so far on their journey. Most were old and damaged, only bits and pieces of information still readable. The one in best condition was a handwritten journal that he'd found in the ruins of Ortan Thaig, sitting out in the open on top of a ledge, as if someone had put it down and forgotten about it.

Whomever had written it had terrible handwriting. He had been puzzling over it for a while before he abruptly realized what he had in hand; this wasn't just the journal of some random dwarf. This was _Caridin's_ journal. And in one particularly chilling entry near the end of the written-upon pages, he described the process by which golems were made; shells of metal or stone closed around living dwarves, into which molten lyrium was then introduced, killing the dwarves , their death going to power the unnatural life of the shell, making it golem instead of lifeless artifact.

Deeply chilled, he returned the journal to his pack, stunned and sickened by this revelation. He looked across the cave, to where Shale stood watching Oghren and Sten arguing about something – well, Oghren being belligerent and Sten standing there calmly responding to him – and decided that he needed to think on this information for a while before sharing it with his fellows. It was too... disturbing. He wished he'd never found the book, now.

* * *

They'd hit a long straight stretch of well-preserved road; as far as they could see to the front, the way was unblocked by falls. There also seemed to be a decided lack of the usual warren of side-tunnels; they'd been walking for hours now without seeing a single one. As a result, their usual close order and watchfullness had slackened off a little, the party spreading out some as they progressed without any sign of opposition.

Alistair had fallen back a ways, for once forgetting the "5-paces-behind-me" rule that Right had instituted; but the dwarf didn't seem to even notice, lost in thoughts of his own as he was.

Zevran had been walking beside him for a while, but when Right proved not to be in the mood for conversation, slowed down as well, exchanging brief words with Oghren and Sten as they passed him. He looked around as Alistair overtook him, glancing at the empty road behind them, then picked up his pace slightly so as not to fall any further behind.

Alistair glanced at him, then looked forward again, the two walking side by side in silence for some minutes. "There's been something I've been wanting to ask you," Alistair finally said. "If you don't mind."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"It's... about the dwarf. You and he are pretty close, right?"

"I assume you are speaking of your fellow Grey Warden, not Oghren," Zevran said. He frowned, thinking for a moment, then finally answered. "Not that it is any of your business, but yes, we are... very close."

Alistair blinked. The way Zevran said that... he hadn't even _imagined_ that the two of them... that they... "I'd meant that you're _friends_ ," he said desperately, feeling himself flush with embarrassment. "I didn't mean... I wouldn't have asked... oh, _Maker_..."

Zevran laughed, showing his teeth in a darkly amused grin. "Then what _were_ you trying to ask?"

Alistair sighed. "Look, it's just... okay, I know I've been an idiot about him. That I may have misjudged him and been unfair to him as a result. We didn't hit it off well to start, and then I got touchy, and I seem to have developed this absolutely _wonderful_ habit of sticking my foot in my mouth whenever I talk to him. Even when I didn't mean to," he said miserably. "I was hoping that _as a friend_ of his you might be able to help me... understand him better. So much about him just... confuses me."

Zevran gave him an inscrutable look, then walked on in silence for a while. "Maybe," he finally said. "What is it you wish to know?"

" _Thank you_ ," Alistair said. "I really mean that. Where to even _start_..." he said, and bit his lip. Something recent, maybe... "His family, at the palace. When we met them, it... well, it didn't go anything at all like I'd have imagined a family reunion would. Did any of them even _like_ each other?"

Zevran gave him an enigmatic look before answering. "You know, I begin to suspect you've led a very sheltered life, my friend. Tell me, of Rica and his mother, which do you think he is the closest to?"

"Rica," Alistair immediately answered. "They were at least polite to each other, and Rica seemed so happy to see him."

Zevran grinned. "Now I _know_ that you've been very sheltered. No, Alistair, Rica and Right do not like each other very much at all. She is a grasping, narrow-minded, manipulative woman, and she is only happy to see him because he is of current use to her future goals. Right and his mother, on the other hand – they love each other very deeply."

Alistair gave Zevran an incredulous look. "But... the way she _spoke_ to him! As if she hated him."

"There are families in which people cannot say in words what they feel inside," Zevran explained. "She missed him when he was gone – that is why she spoke so bitterly of his having left her for the surface. She missed the care he used to take of her, so she spoke of how no one stops her from drinking any more. But she also knows he is better off where he is now, and that is why she told him that she and Rica are fine, and to go away."

"Oh," Alistair said. They continued on in silence for a while, Alistair mulling over Zevran's words. "That's... a very strange way to live," he said after a while. "I never imagined..."

"Yes. And sadly, it is also all too common. Which is why I believe you must have led a sheltered life."

Alistair thought about that for a while. "I suppose I have," he admitted after a while. "Thinking about it, I've had very little exposure to real families. I wasn't encouraged to mingle as a child. I grew up mainly in the stable, then from there went to the chantry and into templar training... neither location is exactly teeming with mothers and fathers, you know. Apart from the religious kind."

Zevran glanced at him. "You once mentioned you were educated in the chantry?" he asked curiously.

Alistair smiled. "Yes. I loved that... it was the one good part of being sent there. Well, that and the templar training, which I also enjoyed, at least the learning-to-fight parts of it. We learned so much – all about the history of the Chantry, and of Ferelden, its geography, the different people living in all the different areas... I loved that. It was fascinating."

"Did you learn anything of Orzammar and the Deep Roads while you were there?" Zevran asked curiously.

"No, almost nothing, really," Alistair asked, sounding surprised by the question. "I'd never have imagined it was all this... complex. And dangerous."

"Then I suggest it might be useful for you to contemplate how well you'd have done, if you were abruptly dropped into the complex politics of the dwarves and the dangers of the deep roads on your own, what sort of decisions you might have made... and compare it to Right, and how he's coped with being dropped into the surface world with as much knowledge of it as you had of Orzammar, and the decisions _he_ has had to make."

Zevran sped up then, while Alistair came to an abrupt stop and stared after him, open-mouthed in surprise. When he resumed walking again he didn't make any effort to close the gap with the others, but instead walked slowly along, a frown wrinkling his forehead, deep in thought.


	43. The Dead Trenches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right and Alistair grew increasingly restless the closer they came to the Dead Trenches.

Right and Alistair grew increasingly restless the closer they came to the Dead Trenches.

"Warden senses tingling," Alistair muttered uneasily, and shuddered like a horse trying to twitch an annoying fly off its hide.

Right nodded in agreement, a fierce scowl on his face. He stopped, stood flexing both hands for a moment, then slowly resumed walking forward.

"What is it?" Zevran asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Remember I once told you we can sense darkspawn?" Right asked him quietly.

"Yes."

"Well, we're sensing a _lot_ of darkspawn," Alistair answered.

"Define 'a lot'," Oghren growled uneasily.

They rounded a final curve, coming out of the winding tunnels they'd been travelling through since the long straight road had abruptly ended at a massive rockfall several hours before. Before them was another section of dwarven ruins, including a massive bridge that ran from somewhere off to their right over a deep crevasse to their left. A _sound_ was welling up from the crevasse, surging like surf. Right and Alistair walked over to the nearest edge, the others following warily behind them, and looked down.

The crevasse was deep, deeper even then the depths under the span at Ostagar had been, and the bottom seethed with an endless army of darkspawn, thousands of them all tightly packed together.

"Oh, _that_ many," Oghren said. "Dare you to piss on their heads, Warden."

"You first," Right said dryly.

"On second thoughts maybe it's best to leave 'em alone," Oghren said. "Think they can get up here?"

"No idea," Alistair said.

He and Right suddenly froze. An ear-shatteringly loud roar echoed though the cavern, and a vast dark form winged up into view directly in front of them, arrowing up towards the roof of the cavern before abruptly switching ends and diving down, wings spreading then backflapping to bring it to a landing on the nearby bridge, its back to them.

"The archdemon!" Alistair hissed.

It roared, spouting flames so hot they glowed blue-white, roared a second time, then dove off the bridge and flew away. A faint answering roar of many voices and then a steady tramping sound rose from the crevasse as the gathered darkspawn followed it away.

Right and Alistair collapsed to the ground like puppets with their strings cut as it disappeared into the distance.

* * *

It was a couple of hours later before Right and Alistair revived, to find themselves back in the winding tunnels again, the others having carried them back to a short dead-end side tunnel to make camp while waiting for them to recover.

"How are you feeling?" Zevran asked quietly, crouching down to offer a bowl of soup to Right.

"Like my head wants to split in two," Right growled, wincing.

"So what knocked you and the big guy out?" Oghren asked, looking up from sharpening the blade of his axe.

"Don't know. Being so close to the archdemon when we weren't expecting it, maybe."

"Yes, it was... overwhelming," Alistair said softly. "So vast and so _evil_. I could feel it, worse then in any nightmare..."

He fell silent, and he and Right exchanged a look. It wasn't something they could really put into words, what being so close to the archdemon had felt like. There'd been a horrible attraction to the creature; a warped beauty to its sullied form. Whether that was some lingering remnant of its powers as the Old God Uthemiel, or due to the taint in their blood making them open to its persuasive powers, they didn't know.

"Any darkspawn near?" Oghren asked.

"Yes, some – nothing like as many as before. They've almost all gone, following the dragon." Alistair said.

Once they'd all eaten, they returned to the cavern. It was almost eerily quiet now, the sounds of the darkspawn horde long faded. As they walked toward the near end of the bridge, they caught sight of a cluster of dwarves standing there, in even ranks, weapons and shields held braced as if for an attack; Legion of the Dead, Right thought, judging by their distinctive black and silver armour and skull-like facial tattoos. Then they heard the wordless shouting of darkspawn, even as a large group of them charged off the end of the bridge, their approach having been hidden from Right's group by its high parapet, and plowed into the waiting dwarves.

Right and Alistair were drawing weapons and running forward as soon as the darkspawn appeared, the rest of their group following close behind. They slammed into the flank of the melee, killing several darkspawn before they could even notice that they were there.

The group of darkspawn fell quickly, caught as it was between Right's group and the legionnaires. More darkspawn poured off the bridge, and they found themselves in a running fight, clearing the bridge from one end to the other.

One of the legionnaires stepped forward after the last darkspawn fell. "Atrast vala, Grey Warden. I've never seen one of your kind in the Deep Roads," he said, grinning. "I'll give you credit for backbone. You've dug quite a line through the spawn."

"You know I am a Grey Warden?" Right asked, surprised.

"I recognize a fighter of darkspawn. It marks you. It's why we in the Legion of the Dead abandon our lives, so we can face them without fear. It's a sacrifice I understand Grey Wardens are familiar with," he added, then gave Right an enquiring look. "What do you want here, warden?"

"I need to find Paragon Branka," Right explained.

"Who put this dull idea in your head? We've got other things to worry about in Orzammar..." he said, sounding puzzled, then straightened up, a look of sudden comprehension on his face. "Ah, now I see. The deep lords in the Assembly can't make up their minds, so the pretenders need added influence. I get that right?"

Right snorted, smiled. "That's about it," he agreed. "I don't suppose you know anything useful about Branka?"

He shook his head ruefully. "Warden, you've got your work cut out for you. Paragon Branka is dead, everyone with sense knows it. Past our line, the darkspawn kill everything." He frowned, then continued. "The Legion holds a line so those fools have time to put an ass on the throne. After that, we'll be the first into the Dead Trenches. Might even tackle your Blight, though that's a surfacer's problem."

Right nodded. "I'll be glad to have your help, if it works out that way," he said, and held out his hand. "Name's Right."

"Kardol. I remember hearing about you – the brand that won a proving in disguise, then chewed up most of the carta? Too bad the Grey Wardens snagged you – we'd have been happy to have you in the Legion."

Right's eyebrows rose. He'd always heard that the Legion was only open to those of the warrior clan. Sounded like he'd heard wrong. Glancing around, he noticed traces of the casteless brand on more then one cheek, sometimes obscured by the skull tattoos, sometimes not. "Tell me more about the Legion of the Dead," he asked. "I have to admit, I wouldn't have expected a welcome from you, given what I used to hear back in Orzammar."

Kardol snorted, then grinned. "Let me guess, that damned rumour about us only accepting warrior caste? No, Orzammar doesn't like to acknowledge it, but it's a long-standing tradition in the Legion that we accept _anyone._ Even murderers. We don't care about caste, we just care about whether you're willing to face and fight the darkspawn."

Right grunted. A lot of what he'd done as Beraht's enforcer had technically been murder, though personally at the time he'd have been inclined to call it suicide; the people who he'd killed had all been people who'd chosen their death the moment they willingly tried to cheat Beraht. Still, he knew not everyone would see it that way, and he certainly didn't see any need to argue the point.

"I should move on," he said.

Kardol nodded. "Good luck, Grey Warden. Let us know if you find any Paragons. You're as likely to find a dozen as one."

* * *

They continued on after that, working their way further through the trenches, fighting stray darkspawn as they went. They began to encounter odd growths in the tunnels; horrible pulpy red cables and mounds, pulsating wetly. The further they progressed, the more common they became.

And then they began to hear a thin thread of sound, echoing oddly through the tunnels, a woman's voice, the words just barely on the edge of audibility. It raised hackles and mad them grit teeth. They slowed, progressing nervously, wondering where the horrifying words came from, what exactly they meant.

" _First day, they come and catch everyone._

 _Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat._

 _Third day, the men are all gnawed on again._

 _Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate._

 _Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn._

 _Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams._

 _Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew._

 _Eighth day, we hated as she is violated._

 _Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin._

 _Now she does feast, as she's become the beast..."_

And then they found the whisperer, crouched in a room filled with the rotting corpses of dwarves and darkspawn, crouched over one, tearing off strips of rotting flesh, _feeding..._

"Hespith?" Oghren asked, sounding shocked. "Is that you?"

She rose from the pile of flesh and turned to face them eyes blank and empty. She lowered her head, turning her face away from them, but not before Right saw the dark lesions and grey skin; a long time tainted. Nothing truly alive any more; a ghoul.

"What is this? Someone new? Impossible," she mumbled. "Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers' faces and open doors."

"Is there anything we can do to help her?" Oghren asked, sounding anguished. "She might know where Branka is..."

Right shook his head. There was only one thing that could be done for a ghoul; to kill it as quickly and mercifully as you could. Before it killed you instead.

Hespith looked up at Oghren's words. "No. No you can't. There's nothing left. There's body and there's hope, and both are turning... They come. They... they vomit, they violate, and they chant. They scream, oh, how they scream... Then the change comes," she said, voice dropping to an eerie whisper. "All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so that I would be spared. But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did _Branka_ endure..."

"Branka! Where is she?" Oghren demanded.

"D-do not talk of Branka, of what she did. Ancestors preserve us, forgive me. I was her captain and I didn't stop her. Her lover, and I could not turn her. Forgive her... but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become."

"What did she do, Hespith? What did Branka do?" Right asked, trying to draw further information out of her.

"I will not speak of her! Of what she did, of what we have become! I will not turn!" Hespith exclaimed, plainly becoming agitated by their questions. Her voice rose in a sharp shriek. "I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!"

She pushed past them with surprising strength, and fled away down the tunnels before anyone could move to stop her.

They followed, at a slower pace, wary of ambush. At intervals they heard her voice again, whispering a horrifying tale of betrayal. Oghren looked increasingly sickened as they pieced together from her words what had become of the members of Branka's household. Death at the hands of the darkspawn for the males, rape and torment for the females. And she used a word they'd never heard before, but which the haunting, whispered words of her tale gave vilely suggestive overtones: broodmother.

And then they reached the cavern where the broodmother itself waited, an immensity of flesh, sprawled at the centre of a vast puddle of fleshy growths and pulsating tentacles, spongy underfoot, and stinking of diseased flesh. It might have been a dwarf once – _had_ been, by Hespith's eerie, evil tale – but what it was now was a horrifying monster, mother to countless darkspawn.

It was a grim battle, killing the thing. It screeched mindless hatred at them, flailing at them with tentacles as thick around as a grown man, its screeches drawing nearby darkspawn to its defence. They hacked and stabbed at it for a nightmarishly long time, dodging its attacks, hewing through countless tentacles, darting in to slash at and further weaken it as they could.

It snatched up Alistair at one point, squeezing him and shaking him like a ragdoll before dropping him to the ground. He lay there dazed for a moment, then forced himself back to his feet, coughing for air and wincing, having been saved from the crushing force of its hold by the solidity of his plate armour. And then, a few minutes later, it did the same to Zevren, only he was wearing leather, not plate, and gave a muffled shriek of pain as its fierce grip cracked and broke ribs before it hurled him away. Right's heart was in his throat, terrified that the elf was dead, but he forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand, sinking his weapons into the creature's side yet again, more of its dark stinking blood sluicing from the resultant cuts. Then Oghren roared and somehow managed to vault up on its heaving back and cut its throat, almost entirely decapitating it before it finally slumped over in death.

Right hurried to Zevran's side, the others following close on his heels. The elf was sprawled on his back, pale and sweating, breathing in short panting breaths. He grinned fiercely as Right dropped down at his side and took his hand. "I think the bloody bitch broke my ribs," he managed to gasp out. "She was a bit too enthusiastic in her hurry to embrace me."

Right gave a shaky laugh. "If you're still able to joke about it, then I guess you're not dying."

"Not yet, perhaps," Zevran agreed. "Though I think I will be wishing for it when you bind my ribs."

Oghren produced a flask from somewhere. "Here, get some of that inside you first. With luck it'll knock you out entirely. Even if it doesn't, it should at least numb you down enough to make the pain bearable. Or at least make it harder for you to remember how sodding much it hurt, once you wake up."

Zevran nodded. "My thanks," he said. "I think I will need help drinking it; moving my arms right now feels like it would be very inadvisable to do."

Right nodded, accepting the flask from Oghren and tipping it to Zevran's lips. As he did, Hespith's voice sounded again; turning his head, he saw her standing on a rise of stone beyond where the broodmother's corpse was sprawled.

"That's where they come from. That's why they hate us... that's why they need us. That's why they take us... that's why they feed us," she said in a soft, insistent chant. "But the true abomination... is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed_. Branka... my love... The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am dying of something worse than death."

She turned away. A single final word reached them. "Betrayal." And then she stepped away, and fell straight down off some edge, her lank hair whipping upwards as she plummeted down behind the stone rise the last sight they had of her.

Right turned away. "So... any of you know how to set Zevran's ribs?" he asked, forcing himself to sound calm.

"I do," Sten said. "We'll need some lengths of good strong cloth."

They sacrificed one of their blankets for the purpose, Alistair and Right supporting the elf as Sten bound his ribs. Thankfully the elf passed out as they raised him to a sitting position; whatever pain the wrapping caused, he was beyond feeling it.

"He will need to rest undisturbed for some time," Sten informed them. "We may have to leave him behind, unless you wish to wait several days while he heals.

Right cursed. "I hate to take the time, but I _can't_ leave him alone, injured as he is. The first darkspawn to trip over him would kill him."

"May I make a suggestion?" Alistair asked hesitantly.

"What?"

"We're not all that far from where we left those legionnaires. We could take him back and leave him with them. We'd lose a day's travel, probably, but that's still less time then if we stayed with him while he heals enough to travel."

"A good idea," Sten said before Right could respond. "I have a better one. I can manage the elf by myself, leaving all of you free to continue on. I will take him back to the legionnaires, and wait with them for your return. It will give me a chance to learn more about them; I am sure the arishok will be interested to hear of them."

Right slowly nodded. "That... sounds like a very good idea," he agreed. "If you travel quickly enough, the areas we cleared on the way here should still be free of darkspawn and undead."

Sten nodded, and quickly sorted out the things he needed for the trip. He rigged a crude sling out of a couple of blankets, and used them to support Zevran's limp form across his chest like an oversized baby. "Good luck, kadan," he said to Right, then turned and strode off the way they'd come.

"All right, let's get moving," Right said, turning away once he was out of sight. "We've still got a Paragon to find."


	44. Madness and Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To their surprise, the tunnels leading on from where they'd encountered the broodmother were free of darkspawn; in the day and a half it took them to travel to the area that had been marked on the map in Branka's journal, the only darkspawn they saw at all was dead and half-eaten.

To their surprise, the tunnels leading on from where they'd encountered the broodmother were free of darkspawn; in the day and a half it took them to travel to the area that had been marked on the map in Branka's journal, the only darkspawn they saw at all was dead and half-eaten.

"We should be getting close," Right said after checking his map again. They turned another corner to the left, then one to the right, and found themselves emerging into a large cavern. They'd barely walked a few paces into it when there was a metallic scraping sound behind them. Right spun, in time to see a huge door of roughly-formed metal sliding shut, sealing off the entrance.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned again, and saw a heavily armed and armoured female dwarf walking out onto a stone ledge overlooking the area where he and his party were. She looked them over as she came to a stop, folding her hands in front of her.

"Let me be blunt with you. After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn't bother you, I hope," she said, her voice harsh and gravelly.

Oghren pushed through to the front of the group, a wide grin lighting his face. "Shave my back and call me en elf! Branka! By the Stone, I barely recognized you!" he exclaimed happily.

She frowned in distaste at the ebullient dwarf. "Oghren. It figures you'd eventually find your way here. Hopefully, you can find your way back more easily," she said dismissively, then turned a piercing look on Right. "And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn't mind Oghren's ale-breath?"

Oghren frowned. "Be respectful, woman! You're talking to a Grey Warden!"

"Ah, so an _important_ errand boy, then. I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side."

"He is dead, yes, and the Assembly is deadlocked," Right told her.

"Then what is your involvement in this? Why would a casteless be engaged in dwarven politics?" she wondered aloud, then smiled. "You must have a patron. A highly-placed patron. And they must want something in particular. Now, what might that be?" she asked, tapping one finger against her chin.

She'd clearly asked the question rhetorically, as she gave him no time to answer before continuing, scornfully. "I don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne. Because our protector, our _great_ invention, the thing that once made our armies the envy of the world, is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting. The Anvil of the Void. The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems, and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It's here. So close I can _taste_ it."

"But of course there is a catch," Right said dryly.

"The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself. My people and I have given body and soul to unlocking its secrets. _This_ is what's important. _This_ has lasting meaning. If I succeed, the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics... all that is transitory. I've given up everything and would sacrifice _anything_ to get the Anvil of the Void."

"Does that include Hespith and the others of your house?" Right asked pointedly.

Branka scowled. "Enough questions!" she spat angrily. "If you wish me to get involved with this imbecilic election, I _must_ first have the Anvil. There is only one way out, Warden. Forward. Through Caridin's maze and out to where the Anvil waits."

"What has this place _done_ to you?" Oghren exclaimed. "I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance."

Branka didn't even glance at him. "I am your Paragon," she said proudly, head held high, turned, and walked out of sight.

Right snorted, not bothering to put into words his thoughts on the subject. She might be a Paragon, but she was also clearly as mad as a caged deep stalker.

* * *

Having no choice about it, they went forward, a rock-lined pathway leading them around the raised central area where Branka was encamped, to a huge cavern littered with dwarven and darkspawn bodies and the sad detritus of what had at some time been a dwarven encampment. It seemed that not a single one of Branka's house remained alive at this point save herself and Oghren.

Branka was standing where she could overlook the cavern. She didn't seem to notice them at all, but was instead talking to herself, her voice rising and falling in a harsh, complaining tone. As her words washed over them, complaining of how the people of her house had resisted her efforts to sacrifice them in order to find a way through the trapped maze ahead to where she believed the Anvil of the Void rested, Right felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

Bhelen and Harrowmont wanted him to recruit the help of this murderous madwoman? They were madder then she. Her litany of atrocities would have turned the stomach of the most hardened thug in Dust Town. By the Ancestors, it had him wanting to vomit up every meal back to his breakfast of the day before. He tried to tune out her words, but her peculiar grating whine resisted being ignored.

It was a relief when darkspawn charged out of the maze toward them; in the hectic and noisy battle, Branka's voice was lost to hearing, though as the darkspawn fell and the noise died away, he could hear her, still talking, still bitterly complaining.

They found the first section of the maze heavily packed with darkspawn, even those mindless creatures having by and large been too smart to press further on into the trapped maze. To his relief, by the time they'd dealt with the last of those, they'd moved beyond hearing range of Branka's voice. They continued on, slowly exploring, Right in the lead, keeping a close watch out for traps. Several times he had to caution the group to remain somewhere while he eased ahead and disarmed traps, clearing a safe path for them. Poisoned sharp-toothed traps, immense spring-driven blades that would have cleaved people in two, poisonous gas... the traps were varied and uniformly deadly.

Moreover, the path through proved to have additional guardians; golems, springing to life at some unknown signal, trying their best to flatten their group. Shale had tried to reason with the first ones they encountered, but they seemed deaf to Shale's voice, no more responding to Shale then they did to the others in the party. Shale was unhappy about the necessity of disabling its fellow golems, but grimly set about doing so.

They progressed onward, hoping they'd find a way through, rather then dying in these narrow sunless corridors.

* * *

A final large cavern, eerily lit in red and blue by streams of molten lava falling into an endless cascade into a deep, deep crevasse, and outcroppings and veins of raw lyrium. A circle of stone golems stood in a circle around a single, much larger golem, its shell of dark burnished metal. As they approached, its head slowly rose. Glowing eyes silently looked them over, then it spoke, its voice rich and deep.

"My name is Caridin. Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar."

"Caridin? The Paragon smith? Alive?" Shale exclaimed in surprise.

"Ah, there is a voice I recognize," Caridin said fondly. "Shayle of the House of Cadash, step forward!" he commanded joyfully.

Shale hesitantly moved a few steps closer, coming to the front of the group beside Right. "You... know my name? Is it you that forged me, then? Is it you that gave me my name?"

"Have you forgotten, then?" Caridin asked, sounding puzzled, then sighed. "It has been so long... I made you into the golem you are now, Shayle, but before that you were a dwarf... just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor, and the only woman to volunteer."

"The only... _woman_? A dwarf!" Shale asked, sounding incredulous.

Caridin nodded. "I laid you on the Anvil of the Void, here in this very room, and put you into the form you now possess."

"The Anvil of the Void... that is what we seek." Shale told him.

"If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it," Caridin intoned. "Though I made many things in my time, I rose to fame and earned my status based on a single item: the Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to forge a man of steel or stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible. But I told no one the cost. No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere. The darkspawn were pressing in. Originally I only took volunteers, the bravest of souls willing to trade their very lives for the chance to defend their homeland. But King Valtor became greedy. He began to force men... casteless and criminals... his political enemies... all of them were to be given to the anvil. It took feeling the hammer's blow myself to realize the height of my crimes."

"Sounds like you earned this," Right said, nodding toward his metallic shell.

"Aye. Trapped forever in my own creation. A fitting punishment, I suppose," Caridin calmly agreed. "My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind."

Caridin looked toward Shale again. "You were amongst the most loyal, Shayle. You remained at my side throughout, and at the end I sent you away out of mercy."

"I... do not remember," Shale said quietly, sounding distressed at her lack of the memory for the first time that Right could recall.

"We have remained entombed here ever since, and I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil. Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it," Caridin explained. "You! Please... help me destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!"

A harsh voice rang out behind them. "No! The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!"

Right turned to see Branka charging into the chamber, face twisted in anger.

Caridin ignored her, looking instead to Right. "As long as the Anvil exists, it may be used to create slaves. And it _will_ be used. Help me destroy it!"

"Don't listen! He's been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness. Help me claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you've never seen!" Branka pleaded.

It was an easy decision to make, for once. Support a madwoman who had slain her entire house in pursuit of a goal; or support a man who had tasted his own folly, and come to regret his own barbaric creation and seek its destruction.

"You, of all people, would know the risk," Right told Caridin.

"So it fights with Caridin? Good. That seems right," Shale said approvingly.

"No! You will not take it! Not while I still live!" Branka exclaimed, moving a few steps closer.

"Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail. Does this thing mean so much to you that you can't even see what you've lost to get it?" Oghren exclaimed.

"Bah! You are not the only master smith here, Caridin! Golems, obey me! Attack!" Branka shouted, producing a control rod from hiding and gesturing at the circle of golems surrounding them. Several began to move, closing in on the group.

"A control rod! But... my friend, you must help me! I cannot stop her alone!" Caridin gasped. More of the golems came to life, fighting on his side.

It was a seeimingly never-ending melee after that, fighting and disabling the attacking golems one by one, then fighting Branka herself. She knew several terrifying tricks to do with the exposed lyrium, and her armour was unusually good; it was near-impossible to cause her real damage. But they fought grimly on, slowly wearing her down, until finally she sank to the floor, Oghren's battleaxe buried in her neck. The expression on his face wasn't one Right ever wanted to see again on any living man.

Caridin walked slowly forward, looking down at Branka's corpse. "Another life lost because of my invention. I wish no mention of it had made it into history," he said sorrowfully. "But at least it ends here. I thank you for standing with me, stranger. The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it," he said, turning and pointing towards a great stone ramp cantilevered out over the lave-filled crevasse, the anvil clearly visible at th far end of it.

"Is there any boon I can grant you for your aid? A final favor before I am freed from my burden?" he asked.

"Oghren? You lost Branka to this. What do you want?" Right asked softly.

Oghren looked up from contemplating his wife's body, his eyes suspiciously wet, voice rough. "Huh. Don't suppose you can bring Branka back? Maybe make her a golem, like you?"

"I would not do such a thing to her even if I could," Caridin replied gently.

"Somehow I didn't think so. Then I don't want anything that would remind me of... this. Best it's just done. There... is still the matter of the election. I mean... we still need a Paragon to get the Assembly's support, right?"

Caridin nodded. "For the aid you've given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and give you a crown for the king of your choice. I do not wish to hear their names, nor anything more of them. I have already lived far beyond my time. I have no place here."

He turned and walked to the Anvil, opening a nearby chest and removing gold bars and handfuls of gemstones from it, then began shaping them into a heavy crown.

While he worked, Right and the others did what they could to help Oghren give Branka's remains a funeral; returning her to the stone, placing the body in an out-of-the-way corner of the cavern and covering her over with whatever loose rocks they could find. It was not as fine a resting place as a Paragon was due, but for what she had become, it was, in Right's opinion, more then she deserved.

Afterwards, a large statue to one side caught Right's attention. He walked over and found that it was covered in dwarven runes. Names... lists of names...

"Huh. Names. A long list of dwarves," Oghren said, having followed him over to see what he was looking at. "Err... hold on... 'We honour those who have made this sacrifice; let their names be remembered'. Fart me a lullaby! It's a memorial... of all the dwarves who became golems! Has to be! If there was some way of getting this back to the Shaperate in Orzammar, I'd bet they'd brown their trousers! And pay good gold for it. Probably both."

It took every sheet of blank vellum they had in their packs, and a lot of patient holding up of individual pages by Alistair and Shale while Oghren and Right rubbed chunks of charcoal over the surface, but they managed to take a rubbing of the entire list. Right tied the sheets together and carefully put them away in his pack, along with a couple other things he'd picked up in the course of their travels that he thought the Shaperate might find interesting.

Caridin beckoned him over. The finished crown sat on the anvil, a gleaming helmet of solid gold, its surface covered with row upon row of gleaming red gemstones, arranged in rippling patterns by hue. It was an awe-inspiring bit of craftsmanship – at least if you liked that sort of thing. Right suspected its massive size was meant to be as much a punishment for the prospective king as reward and prize.

"There. It is done. Give it to whom you will," Caridin said. "Now please, destroy the anvil. The hammer awaits your hand."

Right nodded. He gently removed the crown, putting it safely to one side, then hefted the heavy mallet, and brought it down with a resounding crash on the anvil. The anvil resisted destruction; it took several blows before the first crack appeared, but once it began, it crazed and cracked quickly, and was soon nothing more then a pile of rubble.

"You have my eternal thanks, stranger. Atrast nal tunsha... may you always find your way in the dark," Caridin said, then turned and stepped off the edge, toppling soundlessly down and down to disappear beneath the surface of the river of lava far below.

Right stood a moment, watching the glowing stream, then bent and picked up the heavy crown. "Let's go," he said tiredly. "It's a long way back to Orzammar."


	45. Caridin's Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right pushed the pace as much as he could, working their way back to the Dead Trenches. It helped that the way was still unnaturally clear of darkspawn. He wondered if Branka had anything to do with that – some way she'd attracted them, perhaps, before shunting them off into the maze – or if it was merely a side effect of the archdemon having drawn its army out of here so recently. In any case, they returned at a good rate of speed. He felt a surge of relief as they spotted the current encampment of the Legion of the Dead, considerably further advanced into the Trenches then when they'd last seen them.

Right pushed the pace as much as he could, working their way back to the Dead Trenches. It helped that the way was still unnaturally clear of darkspawn. He wondered if Branka had anything to do with that – some way she'd attracted them, perhaps, before shunting them off into the maze – or if it was merely a side effect of the archdemon having drawn its army out of here so recently. In any case, they returned at a good rate of speed. He felt a surge of relief as they spotted the current encampment of the Legion of the Dead, considerably further advanced into the Trenches then when they'd last seen them.

As they approached one of the dwarves raised a hand in greeting, a smile crossing his familiar face. "Stone met, Grey Warden. Have you found your Paragon or just the dust she left?" Kardol called.

"We found her," Right said, already peering around in hopes of spotting Sten or Zevran. "We sent a couple members of our group back to you a few days ago..." he said anxiously.

"Ah, yes, the qunari and the elf. Don't worry, they reached us safely. They're on their way back to the city now; we had a patrol due to return there the day after they arrived, and your giant decided that the elf needed to be taken to a proper healer as rapidly as possible, so he elected to return with the patrol."

Right frowned. He hadn't realized until this very minute how much of his hurry had been a desire to see Zevran again and be sure he was alright. The disappointment he felt, knowing it wouldn't be until some days from now, after he was back in the city, that he saw Zevran again... that, more then anything, made it clear to him how much he was coming to care for the elf.

"Grey Warden, you have impressed the best of us," Kardol was saying when he dragged his attention back to the conversation at hand. "You and your companions reclaimed more territory in a handful of days then we've been able to in the last ten years. Truly an incredible achievement!"

Right shook his head. "Pure luck," he said. "The archdemon came through and pulled most of the darkspawn from here right before we arrived. We met comparatively little opposition as a result; there's even an area to the west of here where we saw no darkspawn at all."

"The archdemon?" Kardol asked, surprised and shocked.

"Yes. Actually, you only just missed seeing it yourself by a few hours when we first met," Right said, and explained about his group having arrived at the chasm in time to witness it callings its gathered armies away.

"By the sound of it, I'm just as glad to have missed the sight," Kardol said. "Come, join us for a meal and rest before you resume your travels; and tell me more about your meeting with Branka."

Right nodded, and Kardol led the way to a spot where they could set up their camp alongside the legionnaires.

* * *

Days of travel, at a punishing pace. The dearth of darkspawn in their path continued for a surprisingly long time; likely because of the patrol passing through some unknown days of travel ahead of them. Right kept half-hoping that they'd overtake them, and at the same time was heartily glad that they hadn't; the patrol had enough of a lead on them that if they did catch up with them somewhere shy of the city, it was likely to be because of something very bad happening. No... he wished safe and swift travels on them, and hoped he'd return to the city to find Zevran well-rested, and well on the way to recovery.

They'd reached Caridin's Cross today, before finally reaching the point where they needed to stop for rest. He didn't say "for the night" any more; they'd been away from the surface so long, kept so many odd hours, he hadn't the faintest clue if it was currently day or night. Kardol had shown him a clever spring-driven device the Legion used to help keep track of time, allowing them to divide the timelessness of the Deep Roads into regular watches. It wasn't, he confided, entirely accurate, but as long as it was adjusted each time the patrol returned to someplace where the correct time of day or night could be determined, it served its purpose admirably, preventing the confusion that Right and his friends were experiencing.

Right withdrew some distance from their fire, until the group sitting around it was out of sight, then say down against the wall. He opened his pack, and pulled out a heavy object swaddled in soft cloth, carefully unwrapping it, then held it in his hands, contemplating its weight, gazing into its empty eyeholes. Caridin's Crown.

Alistair walked by a few minutes later, hesitated, then came back and sat down across from him. "Know which one you're supporting yet?" he asked, nodding at the heavy crown.

Right glanced at him. "No. Thinking about it. And mainly wishing that someone _else_ would make the decision." He sighed. "But Caridin stuck me with it, so I guess it's my problem to solve," he said.

He frowned in thought over the crown, turning it slowly in circles in his hands, now facing toward from him, now facing away. "They're both... not what I'd like in a king," he said softly. "Bhelen has a reputation as a liberal, and the fact his current heir has a casteless mother... he can certainly talk a good talk about opening Orzammar up more, loosening the restrictions of caste. He might even manage to do it, even manage to be a _good_ king. But I think of what I know he's done – the murder of one brother, having it blamed on the other, the forged papers... and I know at heart he's just Beraht writ big. A thug. Like me."

Alistair said nothing, just sat listening, watching him attentively.

He turned the crown over again. "Harrowmont. Traditionalist. If I wasn't a Grey Warden, he wouldn't take the time to pee on me if I was afire. I can feel his skin crawling every time he looks at the brand on my cheek. _Casteless._ I know what Orzammar will be like under him; same old, same old. He's the _safe_ choice."

He frowned, balanced the crown on his knees, facing toward him. "If only I had the power to see the future and know which was the better choice. Or better yet, if only there was a third choice," he said, then gave Alistair a sudden fey smile. "King Right, maybe?" he said, and lifted the crown as if to place it on his own head, then abruptly sobered and lowered it again. "I _hate_ this. I really wish we could accomplish what we need here, _without_ all this blasted meddling in politics."

He picked up the cloth from where he'd dropped it at his side, rewrapped the crown. "Two more days," he said. "And then I have to choose."

Alistair nodded, standing up again as Right tucked the crown back into his backpack. He paused for a moment, fingers lightly touching Right's shoulder. "For what it's worth, I think King Right would have been a brilliant choice, if you could live more then two seconds after saying it."

Right stared after him in surprise as he walked away, then laughed. "I'll remember you said that... _Prince_ Alistair," he called after his retreating back.

"See, I _knew_ you were going to make me regret telling you that..." Alistair called back cheerfully, before passing out of view around the curve of the tunnel.

Right stayed where he was a while longer, then sighed and rose to his feet, picking up the all-too-heavy backpack and following after Alistair, to where the fire and his friends waited.


	46. The Crowning of the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I've been flip-flopping on who Right was ultimately going to support for ages. There's so much good story potential either way. I finally had to give in, and when I hit the coronation scene in game... I flipped a coin. Enjoy!**

**I've been flip-flopping on who Right was ultimately going to support for ages. There's so much good story potential either way. I finally had to give in, and when I hit the coronation scene in game... I flipped a coin. Enjoy!**

* * *

Right walked slowly into the Chamber of the Assembly. He'd half hoped that during their long absence the stalemate between the contenders might have been broken, removing this decision from his hands, but apparently the Ancestors had a nasty sense of humour. The deshyrs were still deadlocked over the succession.

They'd reached the city after a particularly long day of travel, pushing hard to get there rather then camping shy of it, only to find they'd arrived back in mid-morning. The guards had been watching for their arrival for some time, they were told; they weren't even allowed time to rest or clean up, but instead escorted directly to the council.

They walked in to find Prince Behlen and Lord Harrowmont once again each presenting arguments about why _they_ were the obvious choice for king, Bhelen of course arguing his heritage as the sole remaining son of King Endrin, and Lord Harrowmont reiterating that he'd promised King Endrin on his deathbed that Prince Bhelen would not succeed. Even Right winced at that; surely something pointing out his political skills or appealing to the traditionalist factions in the chamber would have been a more persuasive argument on Lord Harrowmont's part.

The Commander of the Guard walked forward, helmet under one arm. "I apologize for the interruption, Lord Steward, but the Grey Warden has returned." he announced.

The Steward of the Assembly turned and gave Right's party a questioning look.

"Well, Warden? What news do your bring?" Bhelen called out, an edge of smugness in his voice.

"I bring a crown forged by Caridin on the Anvil of the Void," Right called out in as carrying a voice as he could manage, wincing internally at how tired his voice sounded. Well – he _was_ tired, tired enough to just want to lie down and sleep rather then being _here_. He stripped off his pack and set in down on the floor before him, still feeling its great weight on his shoulders even after removing it.

Oghren stepped forward to his side. The dwarf was sober, and had somehow managed to clean up the worst of the dust and grime of travel – not to mention darkspawn spume – on their way to the chamber. He actually looked and sounded like a respectable member of the warrior caste. "Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem. This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void," Oghren declaimed. "Before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar's next king, chosen by the ancestors themselves!"

While he spoke, Right removed the cloth-wrapped crown from his pack, gently stripping off the wrappings and holding it up for all to see. A murmur of sound ran around the chamber. The Steward signalled a guard to bring it to him, and stood there for several minutes, minutely examining the craftsmanship of the crown.

"This crown _is_ of Paragon make and bears House Ortan's ancient seal," he finally declared. " Tell us, Warden: whom did Caridin choose?"

Right knew it would be easiest on him if he claimed that Caridin had made a choice between the two candidates, but some part of him rebelled at the idea of lying before the assembly. "He wished me to give it to whomever I chose." he said calmly, ignoring the increased muttering this announcement raised.

The Steward glanced toward Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont. He looked faintly surprised when neither objected to this astonishing claim. Right knew why; they both believed him firmly in their own camps. After a moment the Steward gave a slight nod. "We've argued in these chambers for too long. The will of the Paragon is that the Grey Warden decide."

And now the moment had come. He had to decide between the two men. He looked at Prince Bhelen, saw the self-satisfied assurance in his eyes that Right would choose him; at Lord Harrowmont, striving to look equally calm but with a faint line of worry etched on his brow. Thought, briefly, of his sister Rica, and her son Endrin. Of how neither man was a perfect candidate.

"I would grant the crown to Harrowmont," he rasped out, the words bitter on his tongue. Neither man was a perfect candidate, but at least he knew Lord Harrowmont to be a reasonably honest man. He might not agree with the man's politics, but better that then elevating someone he _knew_ to be a lying kinslayer.

"I appreciate your forthrightness, Warden. You have acted with grace through this entire torturous process." Lord Harrowmont said, relief and surprise showing equally on his face.

Things moved quickly after that, the guards moving Right and his group off to one side while the Steward strode to the centre of the floor, the great golden crown carried reverently in both hands. The deshyrs took their places in a circle around him, thudding their long staffs of office against the floor in a steady cadence as Lord - now King – Harrowmont descended the stairs and knelt to receive his crown.

As he rose, Prince Bhelen's voice rang out across the council chamber. "I will not abide by this!" he angrily shouted.

"The ancestors have spoken!" a deshyr protested.

"Stand down, Bhelen. You've lost," Right called out tiredly, looking across the chamber at him.

"Would you let a casteless surfacer decide the fate of the dwarves?" Bhelen called out scornfully, then gave a signal. The doors behind him opened, and armed dwarves poured into the chamber at his back.

Right felt sickened – and vindicated. It was obvious that Prince Bhelen must have had his men in place even before Right returned, had already been planning a coup of some kind to force the assembly's hand. Had they been even an hour later in returning, it might well have been to find the chamber awash in blood, Harrowmont dead, and Bhelen crowned king over the bodies of anyone who opposed him; it had happened before in the long, ofttimes bloody history of the dwarfs. Some day, it likely would again. But not today, he swore to himself, already drawing his weapons.

"Guards!" King Harrowmont bellowed even as Prince Bhelen and his men charged down the stairs, weapons raised against the largely defenceless deshyrs. Right sprang to Harrowmont's side, narrowly preventing Bhelen from cutting him down out of hand.

The fight was grim work, deshyrs screaming and wailing, some dying, as Prince Bhelen's thugs sought to gain control of the assembly. Right found himself battling Prince Bhelen, while Alistair, Shale and Oghren kept his men away, Stench doing his bit to add to the confusion in the room. He glimpsed Harrowmont, a staff he'd taken from a fallen deshyr in hand, wielding it as a weapon with surprising skill.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, Bhelen dead at Right's feet, his men either dead, captured, or fleeing. Right stared wordlessly down at the body.

King Harrowmont stepped over and looked down at his fallen rival as well. "I admit, I did not think even Bhelen would defy the word of a Paragon. Nor that so many would follow him," he said bitterly. "But most of Orzammar has seen him for what he really is, and I trust we will bring this insurgency under control."

"Show them you are a strong king and they will follow you," Right said, too exhausted to bother trying for more diplomatic phrasing.

"I prefer to be known as a just and compassionate king. 'Strong' too often comes to mean 'tyrannical.' But I will not leave this uprising unpunished," he said firmly, then turned to face the shaken remains of the Assembly, and raised his voice. "Those loyal to the throne will begin preparations for a surface mission immediately. Orzammar will fulfil its treaties."

"Thank you, King Harrowmont. Perhaps your rule will mark a new era for Orzammar," Alistair said with quiet diplomacy.

King Harrowmont nodded in acknowledgement. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to the palace and set our plans in motion."

"And I must return to my duties on the surface, " Right said.

Harrowmont nodded again, and departed. Right gathered up his group by eye. "Let's go find Sten and Zevran, and get some rest," he suggested, and led the way out of the blood-spattered chamber.

* * *

He was startled to see Kardol waiting outside the Chamber of the Assembly when they emerged.

"The throne restored and legends put to rest. Incredible." Kardol said, smiling at him approvingly.

"What are you doing here?" Right asked him, surprised.

Kardol grinned. "You clearly made good time on the way back, warden – but my men and I made better. I decided that while you were busy making history, I wanted to see it. If I'd heard it second hand I'd have called it a sodding lie. Warden, we've got a king because of you. The rest, impressive, but the Legion is grateful most for restored leadership. It frees us to fight the darkspawn properly."

"Orzammar is lucky to have you," Right told him.

Kardol's grin widened. "You'll have us too, warden! I think it's time the surfacers saw the good the stone can unleash. We'll be at your side. Back to Orzammar when we win, though. I'll not stay topside to lose my stone sense."

"We'll be honoured to have you," Right said, knowing it for truth.

"I won't keep you any longer - I can see you're in need of rest; Ancestor's guard you, warden."

"Stone support you, Kardol," Right responded.

* * *

They headed over to the palace, that being the most likely place for Sten and Zevran to be. It was only when he found his path blocked by Vartag and a quartet of Royal guardsmen that he realized his exhaustion was making him stupid.

"You will not live to brag about your betrayal!" Vartag snarled, then attacked, himself and all four guardsmen aiming for Right. His sudden attack almost worked; Right and his group were tired, and hadn't been expecting it. For a moment Right was hard-pressed; he grunted in pain as one guardman's sword laid open his arm, then Alistair moved in on that side, Stench flew past him on the other to bowl someone else over, and suddenly the fight turned in their favour.

By the time other guardsmen, loyal to Harrowmont, finally arrived on the scene, it was all over, Vartag and his men dead.

Right looked numbly at the bodies, shook his head. What a waste. And likely the days to come would see more deaths, as the remaining hardliners of Bhelen's faction gave bloody objection to King Harrowmont's accession.

They continued on deeper into the palace, toward the rooms Bhelen had loaned them before they'd left for the Deep Roads. The route brought them past the door to Rica's rooms. Right paused a moment, then shook his head. Let her hear the news from someone else first; he couldn't face her right now.

They reached another familiar door. It opened as they reached it, Sten's familiar tall form stepping out, having to duck slightly to clear the frame. "You're back," he said. "Good. The elf is well."

Right nodded, and walked past him into the room, vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, Sten and the others moving off down the hallway to the room they'd shared on their previous stay. He had eyes only for the elf lying propped up in bed, a neatly tucked in sheet covering him to the waist, his torso still wrapped with supportive bandages from waist to armpits. His hair was unbraided, and a welcoming smile lit his face as he saw Right walking toward him.

"You look tired, _mi coraz_ _ó_ _n_ ," Zevran said softly.

Right nodded wordlessly, running his eyes over the elf, relieved to see him looking reasonably well, apart from the bandaging. He sat down on the edge of the bed, took Zevran's hand in his, squeezed it. "You had me worried," he said roughly.

"I had me worried too," Zevran said, even white teeth showing briefly in another flashing smile. "I do not recommended being carried through mile upon mile of uneven, winding tunnels with occasional fights against darkspawn as a suitable way to recover from broken ribs, no matter how well-intentioned those doing the carrying. I'm not sure which was worse, the times the dwarfs carried me on a litter, or the times when a litter wasn't feasible and Sten carried me in a sling. Neither was exactly a _restful_ experience."

Right felt a slight smile crossing his own face. "At least it got you here to this nice comfortable bed," he said.

"A sadly empty bed," Zevran said mournfully. "I have had no one to share it with," he said, then gave Right an archly appraising look. His smile suddenly turned to a frown. "My friend, you are about to leak blood all over my nice clean sheets," he said.

Right looked down, and realized the cut on his arm was still bleeding. "Oh, that. Had a disagreement with one of Prince Bhelen's – _ex-_ Prince Bhelen's – guardsmen on the way in."

Zevran looked at him thoughtfully. "So it is done then – this Harrowmont is king?"

"Yes, let me clean up first and then I'll tell you all about it," Right said, rising to his feet.

* * *

A hurried bath later, he sat again on the edge of the bed, holding out his arm out where Zevran could tend to it, spreading a poultice along the reddened cut before gently wrapping it with bandages.

Right filled him in on the highlights of their adventures after encountering the broodmother, too tired to tell it in full detail just now. So tired his head felt like it was starting to spin by the time he finished.

"You need rest, _mi amigo_ ," Zevran said gently. "Come, lie down and sleep a while. And perhaps later, once you're feeling more energetic, we can celebrate our reunion in a more satisfying way."

Right laughed as he stretched out beside the elf. "With cracked ribs?"

Zevran grinned down at him. "I sure I can think of one or two things to do that would not strain them," he said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Right snorted, and closed his eyes. He was aware of Zevran moving closer, thought for a moment how oddly comforting it was to feel the heat of his body so close, then dropped off to sleep, mercifully free of nightmares for once.

* * *

Rica marched down the palace hallway, eyes dry, hands balled in fists at her side, unable to believe the rumours that had reached her ears. Prince Bhelen, dead – and it was all her brother's fault! _He_ had named Lord Harrowmont as King; had even, according to one particularly vicious rumour, been the one to cut him down when he resisted Harrowmont's usurpation of his rightful throne.

She didn't want to believe it. Her brother – her own brother! – betraying her and her interests like this...

She reached the area where she was vaguely certain Right and his group had been given rooms by Bhelen. She bit her lip as she walked down the hall, pausing outside first one closed door, then another, not quite sure which room he was in.

She heard a laugh she recognized from behind one door as she approached it. Face flushing red with anger, she started toward it. Laughing? When her Bhelen was _dead_ because of him!

"I would not do that, if I were you," a voice unexpectedly said right at her elbow. She jumped and spun, startled to realize that the thing she'd dismissed as a particularly lumpy statue was in fact a golem; the golem that was a member of Right's little entourage.

"I need to speak to my brother," she said, drawing herself up as imperiously as she could manage and trying to out-stare the golem's glowing eyes.

"I would still suggest you wait until a better time," the golem said placidly. "He and the painted elf have been apart for several days. I have little doubt they're doing something disgustingly squishy by now."

Rice stared at the golem, puzzled by its words. It wasn't making any sense. She dismissed its warning and snorted, turning back toward the door. "I _need_ to speak to my _brother_ ," she repeated, reaching out for the door handle.

A second voice cried out from behind the door. She froze, felt herself turning bright red with embarrassment as she recognized it as a cry of passion.

"You see, I was right," the golem said complacently. "Do you still plan to go in, or are you going to stand there all night like a statue? I don't recommended it; pigeons crap all over you."

"I... I'll come back... _later_..." she squeaked, and fled back toward her own rooms, feeling hideously out of sorts. She was most of the way back before she came to an abrupt stop, mouth falling open in shock. That had been a _male_ voice!

She stood a while in thought. Then, mouth set in a grim line, expression thoughtful, she returned to her rooms at a slower pace.

* * *

 **P.S. - the bits of Spanish Zevran uses as endearments are all thanks to Google Translate. I can't swear to them always being grammatically correct, or even being phrases that are as much endearments in Spanish as they are in English, but at the moment they're the best I can do.**


	47. Right Choices To Kinloch Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right paused outside his sister's door, wiping sweaty palms against his leggings. He was not looking forward to talking to her, not after the events of the day before, but it wasn't something he could put off doing for any longer.

Right paused outside his sister's door, wiping sweaty palms against his leggings. He was not looking forward to talking to her, not after the events of the day before, but it wasn't something he could put off doing for any longer.

He had little doubt that she was going to be angry with him, and justifiably so. It was his decision that had led to Harrowmont being crowned king, and while it was Prince Bhelen's choice of open rebellion that had led to his death, he doubted his sister would much care about that.

He knocked. The door swung open a minute later. Rica stood there, stiffly upright, her face pale, mouth set in a hard expression.

"Rica," he said, then stopped.

"Traitor," she said, voice cold as ice. "I have nothing to say to you. You are no longer my brother."

And closed the door.

He hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

* * *

They had a final stop to make before finally departing Orzammar; the Shaperate. Oghren had been right about how excited they'd be over the copy of the golem memorial, though thankfully not correct about the manner in which their excitement would manifest. The Shaper of Memories paid Right a fairly handsome reward for the tracings.

Right also showed him evidence they'd found in their travels about one Lord Durius Ferald, the last living member of House Ferald, who'd voluntarily joined the Legion of the Dead, and later petitioned to have his brothers-in-arms recognized as true brothers, members of his House.

"This is very interesting information you present to us, warden," the shaper said after examining all the documents, and an amulet they'd found in Durius' sarcophagus, with a modified version of his house crest on the front, and the names of his sworn brothers scratched on the back. "If this proves accurate, it may well be that relatives of those who enter the Legion of the Dead will need to be counted as minor nobility, no matter what their origin prior to joining the Dead Caste."

He muttered to himself for a bit about evidence, lines of inheritance, and a vast quantity of research needing to be done - the prospect of which seemed to make him more pleased then anything. Then to Right's surprise, the Shaper offered him the honor of transcribing the information into the current volume of the Memories. Right accepted, and carefully copied the names into the great book.

* * *

When they left Orzammar, Oghren elected to go with them. With the death of his wife, and the sort of reputation he'd garnered over the last few years as a drunken sot, he didn't think he had any reason to remain in Orzammar. It was either join the Legion of the Dead, or try out the surface world, and he thought the surface sounded a lot more interesting. The Deep Roads, Right suspected, had too many bad memories for Oghren for the Legion to sound like an attractive option.

As they emerged into the bright sunlight outside the doors of Orzammar, Right was surprised by how relieved he felt to once again be leaving the place that had been home. He would always have feelings for the place; it was where he'd grown up, where so much of his life to date had happened - where the Stone had shaped him. But it wasn't home any longer. He wondered if he'd ever again have a place that he thought of as 'home'.

He noticed Oghren had come to a stop, face pale, looking up at the sky arching overhead. " Give me a moment," Oghren rasped.

"Sure, take your time," Right said, remembering how unsettling it was to step out under the sky for the first time.

"By the Stone, I feel like I'm about to fall off the world with all that sky up there!" Oghren muttered.

Right grinned. "Yes, I remember that feeling. It passes."

"Too bad. It's kind of like being drunk. But so much cheaper!" Oghren said. He stared upwards for a few minutes longer, then shuddered and lowered his eyes, staring fixedly at the ground. "Well, let's get moving. We're losing... whatchacallit? Daylight."

Right nodded, and the group of them started down the pass.

"Where next?" Alistair asked.

"Circle of Magi, it's closest," Right said.

* * *

Alistair sat down near Right, bowl of stew in one hand, a circle of panbread in the other. He balanced the bread on one knee, and started eating.

Right glanced toward him, continued eating his own stew. The two of them had become cautiously friendly since leaving Orzammar; not friends, but at least talking to each other on occasion, without either of them blowing up about something.

"What changes about you after the Joining?" Right asked after a while.

"You mean other than becoming a Grey Warden?"

"You've been a Grey Warden longer than I have," Right pointed out.

Alistair grunted. "Not by very long. Only about six months," he said. He ate another spoonful of stew, a thoughtful look on his face. "Hmm. You know, I asked Duncan this, too, and all I got was, 'You'll see.'"

Right snorted at the tone of voice of the last two words. "He wouldn't tell you?"

"It's not that Duncan wanted to keep it a secret. It's just that the Grey Wardens don't discuss it much. I gather it's not a pleasant topic. The first change I noticed was an increase in appetite. I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving."

Right nodded. He'd become well aware of that one on his own; he was eating easily three times what he had previously, and not putting on an ounce of weight. Loosing some, if anything.

"I'd slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I'd look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare... then laugh themselves to tears," Alistair continued, a slight smile crossing his face at the memory.

"So it was a joke?"

"More like an initiation. They all went through it, too. Oh... and then there were the nightmares. Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn. We tap into their... well, I don't know what you'd call it. Their 'group mind.' And when we sleep, it's even worse. You learn to block it out after a while, but at first it's hard. It's supposed to be worse for those who Join during a Blight. How is it for you?"

"Nightmares... yes, I know what you mean," Right said quietly. He'd had another bad one last night; bad enough he probably would have woken the camp, if Zevran hadn't woken him from it first.

Alistair nodded. "Some people never have much trouble, but that's rare. Others have trouble sleeping their entire life. They're just more sensitive, I suppose. Everyone ends up the same, though. Once you reach a certain age, the _real_ nightmares come. That's how a Grey Warden knows his time has come."

"What are you talking about?" Right asked, frowning.

"Oh, that's right. We never had time to tell you that part, did we?" Alistair said, sounding surprised. "Well, in addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don't need to worry about dying from old age. You've got thirty years to live. Give or take. The taint... it's a death sentence. Ultimately your body won't be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than... waiting. It's tradition."

"Why Orzammar?"

"You'll always find darkspawn there. The oldest Grey Wardens head to the Deep Roads for one last glorious battle. Not that there's a shortage of darkspawn during a Blight, but that's the tradition," he said, then frowned. "You know, Duncan... he started having the nightmares again. He told me that - in private. He said it wouldn't be long before he'd go to Orzammar himself. I guess he got what he wanted. I just wish it had been something worthy of him."

"He will be remembered, Alistair. As will the others," Right said softly. "By us if by no one else."

Alistair nodded. "I know. Ending the Blight... should make this all worthwhile, right?"

Right nodded. They finished their stew in silence.

* * *

Right frowned at the templar guarding the dock. "Prove it?" he asked.

"Kill some darkspawn. Come on! Let's see some righteous Grey Wardening," the templar sneered.

Right sighed and crossed his arms. This guy really was an idiot. "There aren't any darkspawn here," he pointed out.

"That's good, I suppose – wouldn't want darkspawn smeared across the landscape!" he said, and gave a braying laugh. "Hey, I hear their blood is black. Is that true? You'd know, if you're a Grey Warden..."

"Kill a darkspawn and find out for yourself," Right told him, annoyed.

"That's a Grey Warden job. You'd know that if you really were one!" the templar exclaimed, as if he'd scored some kind of point.

Right stared at him. "Can't we work something out?" he asked. Maybe a small bribe would work. Or he could always just push him off the end of the dock. He'd sink like a stone in that silly amour of his. Right smiled slightly, enjoying the mental picture.

"Well, maybe... if you had forty sovereigns you're willing to part with... I know a girl in Wutherford and she'll only agree to see me if – er, never mind."

Right just stared at him. Forty sovereigns? The man was barking mad. "I warn you, my patience is wearing thin," he growled.

"Uhhh... is that bad? Look, I'm uh, just trying to do my job..." the man stuttered, eyes going wide as he looked at something behind Right. "I'll take you right now... just like you wanted," he said, then hurriedly turned away, scurrying for the boat tied up at the end of the dock. At least as much as he could scurry in full plate armour with a fancy skirt.

Right glanced back before following him, and had to suppress a smile. Zevran was cleaning his nails with his dagger point, while Oghren was giving the man the evil eye. Alistair loomed behind them, not actually doing or saying anything, but still managing to look annoyed, large and very well armed.

With so many heavily armed and armoured men, the boat rode unsettling low in the water. Alistair was frowning as he watched the templar, Carroll, splashing inexpertly with the oars as he pushed them off from the dock. "If he's not careful, he'll have us over in a minute," Alistair said softly. "At which point he, Oghren and I will sink like rocks, and you and Zevran will have the fun of finding out if there's anything dangerous in these waters while you swim to shore. Assuming both of you _can_ swim. And this close to the tower, it's pretty much a given that there's something dangerous in these waters."

Alistair insisted on changing places with Carroll after that, which the man complained bitterly about. Them moving about in the boat made it sway alarmingly, but once they started moving again, even Right could tell that Alistair was handling the oars with much more expertise then the templar had shown. They glided smoothly along across the lake, paralleling the ruined viaduct that had once given access to Kinloch Hold.

"Look, there's where Old Silverback lives," Carroll said in a strained whisper, pointing towards the viaduct as they passed a particularly large gap in its even row of spans.

"Old Silverback?" Right asked.

"What they call a silver eel. He's a big one, easily twice the length of this boat."

Alistair snorted. "That's small, for a silver eel," he said dryly. " _Young_ Silverback is more like it."

"Oh really? And what would _you_ know about it?' Carroll asked sneeringly.

Alistair paused in his sculling, and gave Carroll a look. "I grew up at the south end of this lake. And I saw one of the big ones once," he said shortly. "Close enough to touch it. You ever seen the bridge to Castle Redcliffe? It was about that long."

Carroll paled and gulped. "You... you're lying," he stuttered, then hunched down in his seat and remained silent the rest of the trip, watching the water nervously as if expecting something monstrous to show up at any minute.

As they climbed the stairs to the hold, leaving Carroll to row himself back across the lake to his post, Right looked enquiringly at Alistair. "That true, what you told him?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Alistair said, a grim look on his face. "I... don't like to talk about it."

* * *

 **Why yes, that last bit**   
_  
**is**   
_   
**a reference to "The Least of His Children"**   
**– a short about young Alistair that I recently completed.**


	48. The Broken Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I'll taking a lot more creative liberties with the dialog from this point on – switching around who says some lines, doing some minor editing on others. Time isn't really shown passing in the game, but it's definitely passing in this story, and that means some lines need editing in order to make sense within the timeline of events. Plus Alistair isn't going to just stand back and say nothing as much now that he and Right have started to resolve their differences.**

**I'll taking a lot more creative liberties with the dialog from this point on – switching around who says some lines, doing some minor editing on others. Time isn't really shown passing in the game, but it's definitely passing in this story, and that means some lines need editing in order to make sense within the timeline of events. Plus Alistair isn't going to just stand back and say nothing as much now that he and Right have started to resolve their differences.**

* * *

As soon as they entered the Tower, Right got the feeling that something was wrong. There was a tense feeling in the air, an edge to the voices of the people there, that put him in mind of the sort of barely suppressed panic that would pass through Dust Town when word of a guard's sweep came through. Groups of templars were standing around in clusters, a couple of obviously injured ones lying at one end of the hall.

A grey-haired templar seemed to be the one in charge; he was giving orders as they entered. "...and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times. Do not open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ser!"

Right stepped forward, trying to remember the name of the man he'd been told was commander of the templars at the tower. "You're Greagoir, I assume?"

"Who are _you_? I explicitly told Carroll not to bring anyone across the lake," Greagoir snapped, looking annoyed. "We are dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave, for your own safety."

Right shook his head. "No. The mages have an obligation to the Grey Wardens," he said firmly, holding out the treaty.

Greagoir brushed it aside without even looking at it. "I am weary of the Grey Wardens' ceaseless need for men to fight the darkspawn, but it is their right. You'll find no allies here. The templars can spare no men, and the mages are... indisposed. I shall speak plainly: The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower's halls. The Circle is lost. The tower has fallen."

"How did this happen?" Alistair asked.

"We don't know." Greagoir snapped. "We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them and told my men to flee."

"What can we do to help?" Right asked, indicating himself and his group.

Greagoir looked surprised at the offer. "I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment."

"The Right of Annulment?" Right said, puzzled.

"The Right of Annulment gives templars the authority to 'neutralize' the mage Circle." Alistair explained quietly. "Neutralize being the nice way of saying kill."

Greagoir nodded. "This situation is dire. There is no alternative – everything in the tower _must_ be destroyed so it can be made safe again."

"Why wait? I could go clean the tower out now," Right suggested.

"I assure you, an abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will face more than one," Greagoir said grimly.

"I have faced abominations before," Right said calmly.

Greagoir's eyebrows raised in surprise. "That is a surprise. Did you manage to put it down?"

"Yes, I dealt with it," Right responded shortly. He didn't like remembering that moment, when he'd had to 'put down' a child.

Greagoir gave him an appraising look. "If you have fought an abomination, then you understand their evil. You know what they are – madness and cruelty made flesh. You think you can deal with them, when even templars are loathe to enter the tower?"

"Of course I can deal with them," Right said, with what he hoped wasn't false confidence.

"If you succeed, I would owe you much, enough that I would pledge my templars to your cause," Greagoir said. "Without word from Denerim, I must determine our course. Surely destroying darkspawn is a worthy goal."

"We have an agreement, then?"

Greagoir nodded slowly. "Yes... but a word of caution... once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if the first enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen... then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed. May Andraste lend you her courage, whatever you decide."

"I'll need some resupply before I head in, then," Right said. "I didn't come over expecting to have a fight ahead of me, most of our potions and poultices and so on are on the other side of the lake in our camp."

"The quartermaster will give you what help he can," Greagoir said, indicating a lightly armoured soldier standing off to one side; the only one not dressed in the heavy plate of the templars.

Right nodded and went over to see the man. He had little stock available, most of his things being stored further in the tower, but Right was able to put together an acceptable stockpile of potions, as well as finding a rather nice belt to replace his current one.

"Let's get this done," he said, and led the way into the apprentice quarters. The massive metal doors boomed shut behind them, and they could hear the scrape of the lock being re-engaged.

* * *

The first few rooms of the apprentice dormitories were empty. They'd passed almost halfway around the first level of the tower before they heard voices ahead, and reached another doorway in time to witness a cluster of mages fighting off a demon. There was a whole group of people clustered together here; adults and children both, all mages.

As they moved closer, Right recognized one as the white-haired mage he'd met at Ostagar the year before. She gave him a startled look, clearly recognizing him as well, then to his surprise raised her staff threateningly. "It's you! No... come no further. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand!"

"Wynne – what are you doing here?" he asked, holding his hands well out from his sides and trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He'd prefer not to on the wrong end of an attacking mage's staff if at all possible.

"I am a mage of the Circle," she pointed out. "More importantly, why are _you_ here? The templars would not let just anyone by."

"I am helping Greagoir resolve the Circle's difficulties."

"Then you _do_ serve the templars, as I feared. Do they have the Right of Annulment?" she asked, sounding worried.

"No, but Greagoir expects it to arrive soon.."

Wynne looked crushed. "So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes we are all dead. They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Right, however, we will not be able to stand against them."

"What exactly happened here?" Right asked.

"Let it suffice to say that we had something of a revolt on our hands, led by a mage named Uldred. After he returned from the battle at Ostagar, he became increasingly unhappy about the way the Circle is run. At first he was very vocal about it, then he seemed to become resigned to the situation again. We should have worried more when he quieted down – we thought he'd given up on his ideas. We were wrong. Now he's tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn't quite work out as he had planned," she said, then pressed her lips together in a thin, disapproving line. "I don't know what became of Uldred, but I am certain all this is his doing. I _will not_ lose the Circle to one man's pride and stupidity!"

"So what do you intend?" Right asked, wondering if she had a plan, or just intentions.

She turned and gestured to a nearby doorway, sealed with a glowing barrier of crackling energy. "I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle."

Right nodded. "Very well. I will help you."

"Once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable," Wynne said, though she sounded worried, as if she wasn't quite sure she could believe her own words.

"Will the children be safe here?" Right asked.

"Petra and Kinnon will watch them. If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children."

"I suppose that could work," Right agreed, frowning. He didn't like the thought of leaving the children with nothing more then a couple of scared-looking mages to guard them. If anything slipped past his group... He looked at his companions. "Alistair, stay and help guard the children, please."

Alistair frowned, glanced at Zevran and Oghren, then slowly nodded. Of the three, his skills would be the most useful if anything came through that door; his templar training would be particularly useful if it proved to be an apostate or blood mage. He forced a smile. "Be careful in there, Right – we're not exactly well-supplied with Grey Wardens, you know."

Right nodded, then turned back to Wynne. "Let's get moving."

* * *

They slowly worked their way through the tower, encountering and killing seemingly endless groups of abominations, minor and not-so-minor demons, shades, the undead, possessed templars – Right regretted the necessity of slaying those, though he didn't regret in the least cutting down every single blood mage they came across. Not when he'd seen the sad, sickening remains of what had been the other inhabitants of the tower before the blood mages took control.

The bodies of the apprentices – every age from child to young adult – were the worst. The templars had at least had some ability to defend themselves when horrors broke out throughout the tower; the younger mages had been helpless, many of them cut down by the very adults who were supposed to be there to teach or protect them.

They proceeded cautiously, clearing every single room they came to. They didn't dare proceed haphazardly, not when the safety of the children gathered on the lowest floor depended on them not missing even a single thing.

Some of their discoveries in the course of their journey were even amusing – such as a mage, hiding in an armoire, who insisted he was safer there then either coming with them or returning to the lower floors.

Some were disturbing in a way that had nothing to do with violence or death – a tranquil named Owain, calmly trying to clean out the mess in his assigned work area, other tranquil who stood around, seemingly unperturbed when a vicious battle with demons raged around them. Whatever had been done to make them act that way, Right couldn't help but feel that it was profoundly _wrong_. They didn't even have a sense of self-preservation any more, it seemed.

* * *

Right leaned against a wall for a moment, catching his breath. The last two rooms had been particularly bad; a possessed templar in the control of a powerful desire demon, who'd summoned undead to her aid when they attacked, and then a whole room full of templars enslaved by a powerful blood mage. She'd come close to taking them out; if Stench hadn't charged her and knocked her down, ending the lightning spell that held them all paralysed in its web of crackling energy, the templars could have killed them easily. Even her death had not freed the templars; they'd been madmen, remembering only that they should be killing the intruders.

"We don't have much further to go," Wynne told him reassuringly. "Another half floor of this level to clear, and then the Harrowing chamber."

Right nodded, then pushed himself to his feet. He wished he'd at least started this well-rested, instead of arriving here at the end of a full day of travel. He didn't know how long they'd been in here now, but he guessed it was well past midnight.

It could be worse, he reminded himself – at least this place was nowhere near as large as the Deep Roads had been. They had at most a few more hours of work to go, not days.

"Let's get it finished," he said, and moved across the hallway to the next door, one leading to the large central area.

They stopped just inside the door, staring at what was before them; a demon, a very large one, standing over a motionless mage. Dead or unconscious, Right wasn't sure.

"Oh, look. Visitors. I'd entertain you but... too much effort involved." the demon drawled as it looked them over.

"Killing demons is enough entertainment for me, thanks," Right said, moving closer, wondering if this creature had a weakness, and if so, what it was.

"But why? Aren't you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am," the demon said softly, voice a soothing purr. "Wouldn't you like to just lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

Right blinked, feeling even more tired then he had a few minutes before. Sleep sounded... good.

"Ho... I feel like I've had a bellyful of warm meat and cool ale... All that's missing is a well-formed bosom to rest my head on... Mmmm..." Oghren muttered, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

Right shook his head, trying to clear the foggy feeling from his brain, and looked around. Stench was curling up to sleep, Zevran and Wynne wavering where they stood.

"What is this? Some ridiculous ploy to get me to let down my guard?" Zevran asked, then yawned hugely. His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

"Resist. You must resist, else we are all lost..." Wynne said softly, rubbing at her temples.

The demon slowly began to glide in a circle around them. "Why do you fight? You deserve more... You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you."

Right struggled to keep his eyes open, heard the thump of someone else falling to the floor – Zevran or Wynne, he wasn't sure which – then found his own eyes closing.


	49. The Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being in The Fade was a profoundly disconcerting experience for a dwarf. This just wasn't a place he was supposed to be. Even the nightmares caused by the archdemon and the blight hadn't prepared him for this... place. At least the nightmares were simple, and usually consistent and to some degree coherent. This place was just... odd.

Being in The Fade was a profoundly disconcerting experience for a dwarf. This just wasn't a place he was supposed to be. Even the nightmares caused by the archdemon and the blight hadn't prepared him for this... place. At least the nightmares were simple, and usually consistent and to some degree coherent. This place was just... odd.

The inside of human and elven heads must be a very weird place, if this was the source of or shaped by their dreams... he'd never been entirely sure on which it was supposed to be. Perhaps even both, the two reacting to and modifying each other constantly.

He also didn't like the thought that while he was here in spirit, his body was somewhere else, unattended. It bothered him, especially since he didn't know how long he'd been here. It felt like weeks. It might have been minutes. At least some parts of it were starting to make a bizarre sort of sense, he thought, as he changed to mouse shape, darted through a tunnel that was both insanely long and impossibly narrow and twisty, and yet _at the same time_ took only three steps in a straight line to pass through and was wide enough that his whiskers never brushed the sides. It made his head hurt.

He changed form again, walking through a wall of fire, and fought yet more of the demonic inhabitants of this place that wasn't a real place.

Only a few things seemed constant. Niall, who keeps him from going completely around the bend, even if talking to the young mage _also_ makes his head hurt. The appearance of the Black City, which sometimes seemed to loom directly overhead and sometimes was in the impossibly-far-impossibly-near distance, but was always somewhere in view, even as other features of this strange place came and went.

He remembered thinking that clearing the tower wasn't nearly as bad as the Deep Roads, and cursed himself for being so foolishly optimistic.

He missed his travelling companions. Even Alistair – even Alistair when they'd been on shouting terms, not speaking terms. Even icily silent brooding angry Alistair.

Mouse again, tunnel again. Panic and run and squeal as something huge almost stomps on him; another change of form. Another monster killed. And another. And another. Over and over again.

He can't tell any more if he's seen this same spot before, or if its completely new. Everything has a disorienting sameness at the same time as being utterly new. Even Niall, every time meeting Niall is the first time meeting Niall is every time meeting Niall. Their words seem circular, following some logic he never quite understands, but each time their meaning is different.

How do humans and elves _cope_ with this place! Time and place are elastic. Before and after and now have no meaning.

He thinks he's making progress. And then he knows he's making progress, because he sees someone that isn't Niall, that isn't a demon-golem-spirit-mage-monster. His heart lifts unbearably at the sight of a familiar head of coppery-brown hair, even as it plummets to his very toes as he sees that familiar form is _stretched on a rack, how_ _ **DARE**_ _they...!_

He tries to run forward but only moves closer at a snail's pace, it takes minutes to move an inch, centuries for a foot... and at the same time he moves at a normal speed, but at right angles to where he's trying to get to... and at the same time he is right by Zevran's side, reaching to cut the ropes that bind him... and at the same time he is walking away, his heart tearing itself to pieces in his chest as he abandons his lover... and at the same time...

"I think I saw him flinch that time," someone says hopefully.

"Maybe. We'll make you scream yet, apprentice," a second voice growls.

"We're not going to go easy on you, trust me," the first voice says, a casually cruel purr. A cat watching a mouse, waiting for it to twitch before smacking it. He can see them now, two forms standing over the rack, grinning down at the outstretched form lying upon it.

Zevran groans. "No... I wouldn't... want you to hold back. I'd be disappointed if you... did," he pants out, a forced smile on his lips.

"This one has spirit. It's a shame we have to break him," one of _them_ says, smiling down at Zevran in a way Right _really_ doesn't like, hand resting idly on the wheel that will tighten the ropes further, hurt him more.

"Zevran! Are you all right?" Right calls, and is surprised when Zevran hears him, reacts, answers.

"What... what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be... here..." Zevran rasps, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Snap out of it. This is a _dream_ ," Right tells him.

"I can't... I need to stay strong. This is my test. I am going to be a Crow... I need to show them I can tolerate... pain."

"But you're already an Antivan Crow!" Right reminds him, desperately. "Don't you remember the Circle? The demon? This isn't real!"

"What? That cannot be, and yet... you speak the truth? I can feel it. Is this nothing but a bad dream? A bad memory?"

One of the torturers frowns. "Oh, I think he's questioning us. That's a very, _very_ bad thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Yes... he will be punished for that. _Severely_ punished," the other says, and yanks on the wheel, but the ropes fly loose and Zevran is on his feet, no longer on the rack, and Right is beside him, weapons flashing, and the demons _die_ for what they were doing.

And then Zevran is gone, fading from view, and Right can only hope that means he's woken up, even as it makes him feel bereft at the loss.

It's easier after that, easier to remember that this place isn't real, that it has rules, even if they're senseless ones, that it has places, even if they change. That there is progress, even if it takes forever and forever and forever to move one single pace.

And he finds Oghren, and he finds Wynne, and then he finds them all, or they find him, and there is the demon that sent them to this curséd place, and the best part is they get to kill it and _kill it_ and _**kill it**_ until it's finally really truly dead...

* * *

Right rolled over, groaning, and promptly vomited. His head was aching abominably, and it felt like his body was attempting to turn itself inside out through his mouth.

"Hold him," he heard Wynne say, sounding worried, and hands grasped him, partially lifted him, supported his head. There was a crackle of energy and the convulsive tremors of his body stilled, and then a flask was being held to his lips and he drank, wondering if the tangy clean-smelling liquid in it would stay down, or just come right up again. It stayed down, his stomach calming, and he was pulled away from the noisome mess on the floor. Then familiar hands, _Zevran's_ hands, wiped his face clean with a damp cloth.

"Remind me never to do that again," Right said, weakly, and Zevran laughed. He could lie here forever, he thought, just watching the way the skin crinkled at the corners of Zevran's eyes when his lips lifted like that.

"How long...?" he tried to ask.

Wynne's face came into view, looking at him over Zevran's shoulder. "A few hours," she said. "I think it's near dawn. We must hurry."

"I don't think I can stand just yet," he answered, astonished by how weak he felt.

"I can fix that," she said, and she did, energy cascading from her fingertips, making the weakness and the hurt go away. He was still feeling shaky when Zevran helped him to his feet, but at least he was up and moving again.

He glanced over at Oghren, who seemed fine, unaffected by his experiences in the Fade. "Why isn't _he_ throwing up too?"

Oghren gave him a grin. "I can if you really want me to, though it'd be a waste of good booze," he answered, holding up the flash he'd been drinking from.

Wynne snorted. " _He_ wasn't doing anything more energetic in the Fade then sitting in a dream-prison tailored just for him – and I'm ashamed to say that neither was I, until you woke me from it. It's astonishing, Right – you really shouldn't have been able to do what you did. _Mages_ would find it difficult, and we're _supposed_ to visit the Fade."

Right grunted, then noticed the body on the floor nearby. He knows that face, knows what the man's voice would sound like if he spoke, knows what nervous mannerisms he would have as he stood and spoke. He felt a deep sorrow at seeing that he is dead. "Niall," he said, and walked over to the corpse.

"You know him?" Zevran asked, puzzled.

"He was there, in the Fade. He helped me. I'd be a raving lunatic by now if it wasn't for him," he said quietly, reaching down to close the man's eyes.

"I've got news for you..." Oghren started to say, then subsided at a glare from Wynne.

He lifted a scroll from Niall's hand. It was still rolled up, somewhat crushed and creased from how tightly the mage was gripping it before he died. "The Litany of Adralla," he said softly, carefully unrolling it, smoothing out the creases. "He told me to take it from his body once I escaped; that we'd need it to defeat Uldred."

They moved on, to begin clearing the remaining half of that floor. They could only hope that nothing had passed them while they were asleep; that if anything had, Alistair and the mages could handle it.

He laughed as he found four dragonlings closing in on him in the first room. "Finally... something that can swallow me whole," he joked. Something _real_ , not some strange dream-beast or demon or shade.

"Oh?" Zevran said softly from beside him. "Is that your current desire?"

Right sputtered, then roared with laughter, even as he lunged at the closest dragonling. "Maybe later," he said, smiling. He knows the joke wasn't _that_ funny, but it's just such a relief to be _here_ , in the real world again, with real people at his side.

The rest of the floor was easy to clear; nothing there compared to the horrors he'd already faced in the Fade.

They reached the room where the stairway up to the Harrowing chamber was, and found something unexpected; a magical shield of some kind, caging in a templar. He cringed away from them with fear-filled eyes.

"This trick again? I know what you are! It won't work. I will stay strong..."

"What's going on? Who are you?" Right asked, looking at the curving shield, then peering through it at the trapped templar.

"The boy is exhausted. And this cage... I've never seen anything like it," Wynne said, sounding worried. "Rest easy... help is here."

"Enough visions!" he cried out, then began to beg. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game. You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake... for theirs... Filthy blood mages... getting in my head... I will not break... I'd rather die."

"Are there other survivors?" Right asked.

"Yes, some fought back... but even they are lost now. Uldred has them. They are in the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there... oh, Maker... He's doing something to them, I can feel it. Something horrible..."

"We must hurry. They are in grave danger, I am sure of it," Wynne said worriedly.

"You can't save them! You don't know what they've become. They've been surrounded b-by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts. You have to end it, now, before it's too late," the man pleaded.

"I will not kill an innocent," Right told him sharply.

"Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk?" the templar asked, bitterly. "To ensure this horror is ended... to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you _must_ kill everyone up there!"

Right shook his head. "I cannot decide on that before seeing what's going on."

He turned away and led the way up the nearby stairs, hearing the man still begging him to slay everyone.

* * *

The Harrowing chamber was a horror, filled with abominations and decorated with splatters of blood and strange fleshy growths that reminded Right unsettlingly of the things they'd seen near the broodmother in the Dead Trenches weeks before.

A captive mage was being tortured into obedience even as they entered the chamber. The tall thin bald man leading the torture and the ritual that turned the mage into another abomination must be Uldred, Right decided, while the heavily bound older man off to one side, looking tired and ill, must be the First Enchanter Irving that they'd been told they'd need to produce to prove that the tower was once again secure. Several other mages were also in the chamber, held by bonds of magic; captives, judging by the fear and horror on their faces as they watched Uldred transform the mage into an abomination.

Uldred turned as he caught sight of them moving forward toward the centre of the room. "Ah... look what we have here. Intruders. I bid you all welcome. Care to join in our... revels?"

"I think I'll just kill you, if that's all right with you," Right answered grimly.

"Fight, if you must. It will just make my victory all the sweeter," Uldred sneered, then signalled his abominations to attack, while he himself transformed into a gigantic demon, as large as a well-grown ogre.

It was a ferocious battle after that, Right, Oghren and Zevran battling the demon and its abominations while Wynne cast spell after spell to keep them alive and on their feet, at intervals warning them of Uldred's attempts to mind-control more of the captive mages. Each time she did so, Right had to stop fighting long enough to rattle off the words of the Litany. Some times he was in time and nothing happened; other times he was too late, and another abomination joined the fray.

In the end they managed to kill him. For a moment Right thought they might have managed to save the remaining captive mages, but then they screamed and died as the magic binding them crushed them. Of them all, only Irving, who'd been bound with mundane rope, survived the death of Uldred.

Right knelt down and cut the ropes, freeing the mage.

"Maker. I'm too old for this," Irving groaned, and rose shakily to his feet.

Wynne hurried over to the elder mage's side, hands already glowing with healing magic. "Irving! Are you all right?"

"I've... ngh... been better. But I am thankful to be alive. I suppose that is your doing, isn't it, Wynne?"

"I wasn't alone. I had help," she said.

Irving nodded slowly, looking around at Right and his companions. "The Circle owes all of you a debt we will never be able to repay. Come, the templars await. We shall let them know that the tower is once again ours. I'll need you to guide me down the stairs... Ah, curse whoever insisted the Circle be housed in a tower!"


	50. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Greagoir, it's _me_ ," Irving called out peevishly, rapping the heel of his staff against the door. "Now open these bloody doors."

"Greagoir, it's _me_ ," Irving called out peevishly, rapping the heel of his staff against the door. "Now open these bloody doors."

"Irving?" a startled sounding voice called, then they heard Greagoir issuing orders for the doors to be unlocked and opened.

Irving drew himself up as the doors opened, and strode forward confidently. "Knight-Commander Greagoir," he said, nodding formally to the man who stood waiting.

"First Enchanter Irving," the Knight-Commander responded respectfully, a look of relief briefly lighting his eyes "Maker's breath, I did not expect to see you alive."

"It is over, Greagoir. Uldred... is dead."

A wild-eyed templar pushed past them, throwing himself between Greagoir and Irving. Right recognized him as the trapped templar they had seem earlier; he'd been gone when they emerged from the Harrowing chamber. "No! Don't listen to him!" he cried out. "Uldred tortured the mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don't know how many of them have turned! He could be a maleficarum!"

Irving frowned at the interruption. "What? Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped.

"Of course he'll say that! He's probably a blood mage! Don't you know what they did? I won't let this happen again!" the templar shouted, and turned suddenly, as if to lunge at Irving.

Greagoir grabbed his arm, stopping him, and quickly signalled for a couple other templars to take him in custody. "Cullen, I am the knight-commander here, not you," he said severely. "I will accept Irving's assurance that all is well. We have won back the tower."

"But they may have demons within them, lying dormant... lying in wait!" Cullen shouted, struggling to escape the restraining hands of his fellow templars.

"Poor boy," Wynne said, watching Cullen being dragged off, still raving, and hastily filled the Knight-Commander in on the circumstances in which they'd first found the man.

Greagoir snorted. "Sounds as if he's more likely to have been turned inside out by the blood mages then anyone," he sighed. "We'll do what we can for him," he said, then clearly dismissed the incident, and turned back to Irving.

"The circle has been saved, but at a terrible cost," Irving said, frowning. "Very few of the mages and apprentices have survived. And I am afraid that Cullen is right in believing that some of them may require watching until we're certain that all remaining danger has passed. But we will rebuild. The Circle will go on, and we will learn from this tragedy, and be strengthened by it."

Greagoir nodded, then turned to look at Right, and bowed slightly. "Thank you. You have proven yourself a friend of both the Circle, and the templars. I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages. They are free to help you, however. For now, I will have to oversee a sweep of the tower. There may be some survivors and we should do our best to tend to them. Please, excuse me. And Irving... it is good to have you back," he added, nodding farewell to the mage before turning and walking away to oversee the investigation of the tower by his men.

"Ah, I'm sure we'll be at each other's throats again in no time," Irving called after him as he departed, then turned to talk to Right, a tired smile on his face. "Here we are, the tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated... though it could have been much, much worse. I am glad you arrived when you did. It's almost as though the Maker Himself sent you."

"It was merely coincidence," Right said.

"From what Greagoir said, it seems that you came here seeking allies?" Irving asked. "The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight."

"What about the tower? Don't you have to stay here?" Right asked, frowning.

"We will do what we can for now, but if the Blight spreads, the tower itself will be lost. Stopping the Blight is more important. You have my word, as first enchanter. The Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight."

Right could hardly disagree with that, nor did he want to. "Well, it will be some time until we're ready to gather and begin fighting the Blight," he said. "I'll see that word is sent to you when it's time."

Irving nodded. Wynne stepped forward, and asked Irving's permission to go along with Right and his group. He frowned, not liking that she hadn't asked him first if he'd even want her along, but knew that, if asked, he'd have had to agree that having a healing mage along would be a great boon. He thought of all the times they'd been slowed or even stopped by injuries, and knew he couldn't turn down the offer.

"I would be honoured to have you join us, Wynne," he said.

"Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Warden, but know that you always have a place here," Irving told her. "There is much to be done here, and I must go. You must forgive me for not being a proper host."

Then they had to wait while Wynne quickly gathered a few things – potions, clothing and whatnot – and said some hurried farewells. Several of the apprentices overcame their shyness enough to come forward and thank Alistair for protecting them. Right gave him an enquiring look as they waited for Wynne. "Had something show up down here?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, though not from the direction we were expecting; it didn't come out of the Tower, so you don't have to worry that it was anything you missed. A demon came up out of the basement; ones of those big fiery things. I held it off while those two mages of Wynne's threw spells at it. Nice little fight, though quite frightening for the children. They think the fighting elsewhere in the Tower may have disturbed some of the wards down there that keep some particularly nasty odds and ends locked away. Hopefully that demon is the only thing that got loose; they've warded the door until some of the more senior mages are free to go take a look."

Right nodded. "Glad I left you down here, then."

"Me too, actually," Alistair said, watching the kids running around and playing. "I'd have hated myself if I'd insisted on coming along and anything happened to the children. Oh, and I got a nice sword out of it," he added, nodding toward a large scabbarded and belt-wrapped shape lying on the floor nearby. "Not my style of weapon, but Sten or Oghren might like it."

Wynne finally re-appeared, and they headed back out of the tower. It felt very odd to Right that only a single night had passed since he'd entered Kinloch Hold; his time in the Fade made it seem longer. Much, _much_ longer.

With the Tower recovered, it seemed young Carroll had already been recalled and the usual ferryman allowed to resume his job; the boat waiting for them was considerably larger then the tiny rowboat in which they'd been brought over the night before.

"Good morning, Kester," Wynne called out to the ferryman.

He smiled warmly at her. "Morning, Wynne. You going out travelling again, are you? I'll need to see your papers, of course," he added.

"Of course," she agreed, and showed him her travel authorization, signed and sealed by both the first Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. He nodded, and stepped aside so they could all enter the boat, then rowed it across.

By the time they reached shore, Right was beginning to realize just how tired he was; Wynne's healing magic had kept him going since their return from the Fade, but the last of the second wind – or was it third or fourth wind by then – that she'd given him was fading fast.

"We're going to stop at the inn here for a day or two," he abruptly announced. "Rest up a little. Alistair, could you head to our camp and let Sten and Shale know to come in? I'll arrange rooms for everyone."

"Of course," Alistair agreed; he could see how tired the others were looking. Whatever they'd run into in the tower, it had obviously left them drained.

"Thanks," Right said, and led the rest of the group off toward the Spoiled Princess.

* * *

It was late that evening before Alistair, Sten and Shale got to hear about what had happened in the tower; by the time they'd reached the inn, everyone else had already been sleeping, only rousing that evening as hunger and bladder pressure forced them out of bed.

"What _is_ this?" Right asked, peering at the gluey substance in his bowl.

"Lamb and pea stew," Alistair told him, hungrily shovelling his own serving into his mouth. "Great, isn't it? Almost as good as the version I make."

Right snorted, and continued eating, filling up mainly on bread and butter. At least the bread was good. Zevran, he noticed, had put his bowl down on the floor, where Stench was busy licking it clean.

The group of them described for the others their adventures in the tower; the fights, the demons, the weird interval in the Fade, the battle in the Harrowing chamber.

"That Fade was the worst part," Right said. "It felt to me like I was trapped there for ages."

"Wasn't nearly that bad for me – just like any evening at Tapsters." Oghren spoke up.

Wynne frowned. "I'm not sure how long it really felt like to me. A long time, but the moment was always the same, just... very _stretched out_. Time doesn't really have meaning in the Fade; that is one of its dangers. It's all too easy to overstay there, while your living body wastes and dies. Which would have been our fate if Right hadn't found us, and woken us from our dream prisons."

"What about you, Zevran?" Alistair asked, noticing the elf had stayed mainly silent in the course of the storytelling. "What was the fade like for you?"

Zevran shrugged. "An unpleasant interlude, but it didn't last long."

Right shot Zevran a look. He'd have thought "unpleasant" was a less then adequate way of describing the dream the elf had been trapped in. But by the closed look on Zevran's face, he guessed it wasn't anything the elf felt like discussing.

Conversation turned to travel plans after that.

"I'd like for us to rest one more day, but I have the feeling we can't really spare the time," Right said. "Especially since I want to change our destination."

"Oh?" Alistair asked, sitting up straighter. "Not going looking for the Dalish next then?"

"No," Right said. "I've been thinking about how little we know about what's been going on in Denerim of late. Instead of heading southeast from here to the Brecilian Forest, I was thinking I'd like to make as fast a trip as we can along the north road instead, stop in Denerim for a day or two, and then head southwest from there to the forest. That way when we meet up with Arl Eamon again at Redcliffe, we'll have more then just rumours and conjecture to base our plans on.

Alistair nodded slowly. "It _would_ be good to have a better idea of where many of the nobles stood – not to mention the general population. Do they believe the lies Loghain and Howe have been spreading, or would they be open to seeing Loghain... removed. And where does Anora stand in all this; did she conspire in her own husband's death, or did Loghain abandon him without her foreknowledge."

"Or even abandon him without any planning at all," Right said thoughtfully.

Alistair frowned angrily. "You think that retreating from the battle at Ostagar might have been a _spur of the moment_ decision?" he all but snarled.

"No, not quite," Right answered calmly. "But... I also don't think it was necessarily something that was preplanned. The thing is, _we don't know_ which it really was, just what we think it was. Maybe in Denerim we'll find some real answers."

Alistair's angry frown faded somewhat, becoming more thoughtful. "All right. That's... reasonable. So Denerim next."

"Yes. And while most of us have only been awake a few hours, I know I for one could use a lot more sleep before we set out, so I'm heading back to bed. We'll be pushing hard once we leave here, so I'd recommend the rest of you call it an early night as well."

The others nodded or made sounds of acknowledgement. Right hoped they'd actually do it; he suspect Oghren, for one, would rather stay up and drink all night. If he did, Right intended to have no mercy on him when it came to travelling the next day.

He rose to his feet, and headed back to his room, Zevran falling into step behind him. "Unpleasant interlude?" he asked quietly once the door to their room had closed behind them, one eyebrow raising questioningly.

Zevran frowned, and leaned back against the door, hands behind him. "Yes," he said shortly. "It... woke old memories. Things from my past I would rather not recall."

Right nodded. "All right," he said, then turned away, walking over to the bed, and started stripping off his leathers.

He heard Zevran sigh, then he walked over and began stripping down too. "Thank you for not... pushing," he said quietly.

Right glanced sideways at him. "If you wanted to talk about it, you would," Right said, and shrugged. "I won't lie and say I'm not curious, but I can wait."

Zevran looked at him, one side of his mouth quirking up in an odd half-smile. "Maybe someday," he said, then stepped closer, leaning down to kiss Right. "I hope you're not too tired to...?"

Right grinned. "Tired, but not _that_ tired," he said agreeably.

Later, as they curled up to sleep, he found himself thinking that Zevran had seemed different tonight; almost desperate for touch, driven by whatever memories the Fade had reawoken. He wasn't surprised to be woken later that night by the elf having a nightmare. Right held him and soothed him until he finally slept again.


	51. Interesting Propositions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their journey from the Spoiled Princess to Denerim passed both swiftly and uneventfully, rather to Right's surprise. Not so much as a single darkspawn or bandit the entire way.

Their journey from the Spoiled Princess to Denerim passed both swiftly and uneventfully, rather to Right's surprise. Not so much as a single darkspawn or bandit the entire way.

They stopped for the night just a short way out from Denerim, Right having decided that he'd prefer to arrive there with a full day ahead of them in which to cautiously see what they could see, before they'd have to make any decisions about either locating a place to spend the night, or returning to the countryside.

After dinner that night, Right did his usual sparring with the others, sparring which Oghren now took part is as well, more often then not, except for the rare evening when he was too far in his cups to trust with a weapon. Even drunk he was a vicious fighter, but when the object was merely sparring, not slaughter, vicious wasn't good.

The dwarf was not only drunken this evening, but annoying; the copper had finally dropped for him recently that Right and Zevran were... involved, and he'd been pestering the elf with salacious comments about it on and off all day. As they sparred, Right could see Zevran looking more and more irritated as Oghren made heavy-handed jokes about plunging daggers and thrusting swords. Zevran finally growled out a curse, sent a throwing knife spinning through the air to land point-first in the dirt between the berserker's legs, and vanished off into the surrounding trees. Oghren peered blurrily down at the weapon tucked in so close to his family jewels, cursed as well, then passed out.

Right snorted, and considered following after the elf, then decided it would probably be wise to let him work off some of his anger on his own first. Instead he went and sat down near the fire, and started the calming ritual of cleaning and sharpening his weapons.

Alistair joined him there a few minutes later, and began sharpening his own sword, frowning slightly as he worked on smoothing out a rather bad nick in one edge.

"You know... maybe this isn't the best time to be thinking about this, but I've something to ask you," Alistair suddenly said.

"Yes?" Right asked, looking up from his own work.

"Seeing as we'll be in Denerim tomorrow, I'm wondering if we might be able to... look someone up."

"You have a friend outside the Grey Wardens?" Right asked curiously.

"I'm not talking about a _friend_ , exactly. And, no, it's not _that_ sort of friend, either," Alistair hastily added. "The thing is, I have a sister. A half-sister. I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant at Redcliffe Castle, and she had a daughter... only I never knew about her. I don't think she knew about me, either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Grey Warden I did some checking and... well, I found out she's still alive. In Denerim," he said then paused. " I thought about writing her, but I never did. And then we were called down to Ostagar and I never got the chance," he added pensively. "She's the only real family I have left, the only family not also mixed up in the whole royal thing. I've just been thinking that... maybe it's time I went to see her. With the Blight coming and everything, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her, warn her about the danger, I don't know."

"If you want to, we could try," Right said agreeably. "As long as it's not too far out of our way."

"Could we? I'd appreciate that. If something happened to her and I never went to at least see her, I don't know if I could forgive myself," Alistair said, looking relieved. "Her name is Goldanna and I think she remarried but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we're in the area, then... well, it's worth a look."

Right nodded.

Zevran returned just then, and threw himself down on the ground beside Right, leaning back on his elbows and glowering in Oghren's general direction. The dwarf was still passed out cold, and had begun to snore.

"You should probably retrieve your dagger before he manages to damage himself on it," Right said dryly.

Zevran grimaced, but bounced back to his feet, and walked over to retrieve the dagger. As he was pulling it out of the ground, Oghren's eyes snapped open. "Hey! Watch it! Keep your hands away from my ba..." he started to exclaim, then caught sight of the dagger, paled, and squirmed backwards, eyes wide.

"I'll watch my hands if you watch your tongue, dwarf," Zevran growled at him, slammed the dagger into its sheath, and stalked back over to rejoin Right by the fire.

Alistair had turned bright red and was sputtering, holding in laughter. Right found himself grinning widely.

"I feel _much_ better now," Zevran said complacently, and stretched out on his back, hands under his head.

Alistair and Right both roared with laughter. After a moment Oghren started laughing too.

"Sorry, elf... I swear it's the booze talking, sometimes, not me," he called, looking ashamed.

"Then perhaps you should be more careful about how much you drink," Zevran said. "You'd have fared much worse if you'd insulted someone with less control over their temper then I."

"I would have squished the drunken dwarf's head long ago," Shale said agreeably.

"Errr... right. Less booze. Good idea," Oghren mumbled, eyeing the golem anxiously.

* * *

As with their previous visit, they started out by heading to the market district. Right took along the members of their little group who he felt were the least likely to draw unwanted attention; Alistair, Zevran, and Oghren. Shale, Sten and Wynne were just too memorable.

He particularly wanted to look up Slim Couldry again and see if he had any more little jobs to point them towards. Unfortunately, while the man was easy to locate, it turned out he didn't have anything to point them toward just yet; he promised he was looking into some things, and urged them to check in with him again next time they were in town.

As they moved off toward the main section of the market, Alistair slowed down, frowning at a nearby building.

"That's... my sister's house. I'm almost sure of it, this is... yes, this is the right address. She could be inside. Could we... go and see?" he asked hesitantly.

"Wouldn't you rather meet her on your own?" Right asked, surprised.

"Do I seem a little nervous? I am. I really don't know what to expect. I'd like you to be there with me, if you're willing," he said, then shifted nervously. "Or we could... leave, I suppose. We really don't have time to pay a visit, do we? Maybe we should go..."

Right frowned. The poor guy was pretty much babbling, he was so nervous. "Fine, let's see if she's home," he said resignedly.

"Will she even know who I am? Does she even know I exist? My sister. That sounds very strange... 'sister.' Siiiissster..."

He was sounding almost completely unhinged now. Right had to bite back a bark of laughter, and settled for grabbing Alistair by the arm and dragging him over to the indicated door. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. The door swung partially open; it hadn't been latched, he supposed. They walked inside.

"Err... hello?" Alistair called into the room. It was dimly lit, and smelled strongly of soap and boiled cabbage.

A door opened, and a red-haired woman walked in. She was thin, wearing a short-sleeved dress with bare feet, damp from mid-thigh down; the soap smell intensified. She gave them a curious look. "Eh? You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won't find better. And don't trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she's foreign and she'll rob you blind."

"I'm... not here to have any wash done. My name's Alistair. I'm... well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I'm your brother."

She gave Alistair a suspicious look. "My what? I am Goldanna, yes... how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?"

"Are you sure your information was correct, Alistair?" Right asked.

"Yes, I... I think so. I'm sure of it, in fact," Alistair said hesitantly, then turned back to the woman, looking determined. "Look, our mother... she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She..."

"You!" Goldanna exclaimed. "I _knew_ it! They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with mother, but I knew they was lying!"

"They told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?" Alistair asked, startled.

"Them's at the castle! I told them the babe was the king's, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!"

"I'm sorry, I... didn't know that. The babe didn't die. I'm him; I'm... your brother," Alistair said, sounding both surprised and happy.

Goldanna snorted, a sour expression crossing her face. " For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I've had to scrape by all this time? That coin didn't last long, and when I went back they ran me off!"

"That's hardly Alistair's fault, is it?" Right pointed out.

Goldanna sneered at him. "And who in the Maker's name are you? Some dwarf carrying all his riches, I expect?"

"Hey! Don't speak to him that way! He's my friend, and a Grey Warden! Just like me!" Alistair exclaimed, shocked at her hostility.

"Ooohhh, I see. A prince and a Grey Warden, too. Well, who am _I_ to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me? I don't know you, _boy._ Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? Nothing. They tricked me good! I should have told everyone! I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you."

"I... I'm sorry, I... I don't know what to say..." Alistair stammered.

Right sighed. The girl reminded him of his own sister, Rica. But clearly Alistair had been hoping for a warmer reception then this. He bit back his first impulse, and instead smiled charmingly at the woman. "Goldanna, Alistair came here hoping to find his family," he said gently.

"Well... so he's found it. I'm his sister. But what are you to me, boy, except the one who took my mother away, hmm?" she asked pointedly.

"You think I wished her dead? I... never wanted that. I didn't have the life you think I did, Goldanna," Alistair said, sadly. It must be sinking in for him that all the pretty dreams he'd had of meeting a loving sister were just that... dreams. The reality was much more bitter.

Goldanna sighed. "I suppose not. A bastard is still a bastard, isn't he? But... brother or no, I've got five mouths to feed and no time to spare until they are," she said, voice already hardening again.

"Then let me promise you this, Goldanna: I'll do whatever I can, speak to whomever I have to, to ensure you and your children are taken care of." Alistair promised.

Goldanna made a dismissive sound. "That sounds all well and fine, but you'll have to forgive me if I don't exactly hold my breath. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do to keep food in my children's mouths," she said, turned, and walked away.

"You have my promise. I can't give you more than that. I..." Alistair called after her, then trailed off as she closed the door behind her. He turned, gave Right a miserable look. "Let's go. I want to go."

He glanced back as they left. "Good-bye, sister," he said softly, even though she wasn't there to hear it.

Once back out in the market, he walked a few paces away, and stood staring blindly out over the stalls and the distant rooftops for a couple of minutes, then abruptly turned back, a falsely cheerful smile on his face. "Well that was... not what I expected. To put it lightly," he said. "I'll live up to my promise, I suppose, but... this is the family I've been wondering about all my life? I can't believe it. I... I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn't that what family is supposed to do? I... I feel like a complete idiot."

"I'm sorry, Alistair. You're not an idiot, you just... need to remember that a lot of people think of themselves first," Right said gently. "And you need to stand up for yourself more. Like you did with me that time," he added, smiling. "Only without having to stew about it for days first."

"Ouch," Alistair said, and winced. "All right, I see your point. Anyway, let's just go. I don't want to talk about this any more," he added, sounding subdued.

They worked their way around the market after that, restocking some supplies they were running low on, listening to rumours, keeping their ears open for leads on anything they could do to restock their communal purse as well; having the thanks of King Harrowmont and the Circle of Magi and the templars was all well and good, but it didn't exactly help buy the groceries, and while Zevran could do minor miracles with even indifferent ingredients, the opportunity to stock up on special seasonings and good quality staples while they were at the market was quickly emptying their pockets.

Which emptied even more dramatically when Right located a smith who swore he could do something with the drake scales Right had been carting around since their expedition to recover some of Andraste's ashes. He paid extra for the work to be done quickly, since he didn't want to linger in Denerim.

They stopped in at Brother Genitivi's house to see if he'd made it safely back home. He was indeed home, and excited about plans he was putting together for a second expedition to the temple. He even gave Right a small reward for having rescued him from the cultists in Haven. Small, unfortunately, being the operative word.

They were headed back toward the main market after leaving his house when a street urchin ran up and held out a folded piece of paper. "Message for you!" he said, and ran off again as soon as Right took it, not even waiting for a tip. Right frowned and unfolded the paper. It suggested that if he went to a certain back room at the Gnawed Noble, he might hear of something interesting. His frown deepened. He didn't like it – it sounded too much like a trap – then decided that if it was a trap, at least he was expecting it; better to go look into it now, while well-prepared, then to have whomever it was show up unexpectedly later.

They entered the room to find an unarmed, well-dressed man waiting, along with two armed guards. The guards stood back against the walls, hands crossed in front of them, looking bored; possibly not a trap, then, Right judged. He thought he vaguely recognized the man as an Antivan merchant he'd briefly talked with on his previous visit to Denerim.

The man smiled. "So my note interested you? Maybe we have some things we can talk about. Let me introduce myself. I am Master Ignacio, of the Antivan Crows."

Right stiffened. Zevran moved a half-step to the side, frowning. "Just see the conversation stays civil. If this is a trap..." he snarled, hands hovering near weapon hilts.

Ignacio gave him a cold look. "Zevran, is it? You are Taliesin's responsibility. Other Crows may try to kill you, but in my eyes, you're already dead. So you are of no notice. But the Warden here, he is of great interest to me."

"I'm listening," Right said, guardedly.

"Ferelden is a busy place: Blight, civil war, other mayhem. Lots of people not getting along. Sometimes they _really_ don't get along. Maybe want to do something about it. The people that handle that sort of thing can get real busy," he said, and paused.

"Go on," Right growled.

"It takes time to do a good job – pride in your work and all – but customers have expectations. Not many people to turn to if you're short-staffed in some lines of work. So someone that's crossed our path and lived... well, maybe they could help out. Make some coin. Everyone wins," he said, and smiled pleasantly.

Right drummed his fingertips on his belt for a moment, then looked at Zevran. Zevran gave an infinitesimal shrug. He turned back to Ignacio. "If the price is right, I'm interested."

"Good," Ignacio said, smile widening. Here's how it works. I hand you a scroll. You read it, you learn about someone interesting. If you find out something happens to him, something unfortunate, then if we talk again I give you money for 'letting me know.' You don't like what's on the scroll, don't do anything. Maybe he has an accident and someone else tells me all about it."

Right frowned. "Why all the innuendo? We both know what this is about."

"You can never be too careful. Can you blame someone for being circumspect?"

"If I do this for you, I want no more Crows after me," Right demanded.

Ignacio shook his head. "That I cannot do. One master has a contract on you. But if you help us out, maybe if that master asks for help he'll just get silence, yes?"

Right thought it over, then grudgingly nodded. "All right. Hand me the scroll."

"There you go. Makes for fine reading," Ignacio said, smiling toothily.

"You're a cautious little weasel, Ignacio; what's your angle? If you're playing us false..." Zevran said warningly.

"My dance is not for you. I need to be real... honest sometimes. And I can say I haven't asked anyone to do _anything_. I've just given someone something interesting to read."

"And you think that will save your hide when they nail it to a wall?" Zevran sneered.

"You're already dead in my eyes, whoreson, take care that I don't 'learn' otherwise," Ignacio snapped. "If that's all, luck be to you," he added, pointedly dismissing them.

Right turned and walked out, trusting Zevran to guard his back. He didn't stop to read the scroll until they were back outside, well away from anyone. The target was someone called Paedan, who apparently worked for Loghain, and could be found at a brothel named The Pearl.

He destroyed the scroll, then continued off around the market, determined to finish rumour-gathering before moving on. He found a couple other jobs they might be able to do quickly via things like the Chantry job board.

To his surprise he got a final offer of work – also at the Pearl – from a rather harried-looking guard captain. The man recognized him as one of the wanted Grey Wardens, but chose to be selectively blind about Right and Alistair's presence as long as they didn't create a disturbance in the market, and quite happily offered him a bit of work when Right casually asked if he knew of any jobs they could undertake.

Well, that made their next destination an easy one to decide upon; the Pearl.

* * *

Their business at the Pearl proved easy enough to deal with; driving off some rowdy mercenaries, removing an unwanted body, checking into a supposed revolutionary cell that proved to be a trap laid by Loghain's men, led by none other then the very Paedan they'd been asked to eliminate by Master Ignacio.

After that they spent the rest of the day in what felt like a fighting tour of Denerim's most dismal back alleys, clearing out nests of bandits, delivering messages, fighting off ambushes by yet more bandits. They even stumbled over evidence that led them to a nasty little nest of blood mages; cleaning those out took until mid-evening, by which time they were all exhausted and in need of a good rest.

Their route having been fairly circular, they weren't all that far from the Pearl; they returned there for supper – on the house, thanks to their earlier work there – and then started discussing where to spend the night.

A fight broke out in a corner of the room. Right looked over and saw a slender woman handily defeating a pair of attackers. As she resheathed her weapons after driving them off, Zevran rose to his feet. "Isabella!" he called out, sounding surprised and pleased, and took a few steps in her direction.

She looked over at Zevran, and raised her eyebrows. "And look who we have here. Come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?" she demanded.

Zevran walked over to her. Right rose and followed.

"You know it was just business, Isabela. Business that turned out well for you, I see – you inherited the ship, I take it?" Zevran asked once he was close enough to speak quietly.

Isabella snorted, then suddenly smiled warmly at Zevran. "I suppose I never did like the greasy bastard. And the Siren treats me far better than she ever did him," she said, then looked curiously at Right

"Perhaps some introductions are in order?" Right asked.

Zevran smiled. "Indeed. This is Isabela, queen of the eastern seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn. And Isabela, my dear, you will no doubt be amused to discover that I am traveling with a Grey Warden."

"A Grey Warden? Charmed," she said, raising one eyebrow and giving Right a very interested look.

"Your fighting skills are impressive," Right said.

"I assume you saw that little drama? None of these poor brutes has ever proven a match for me. They are too clumsy and predictable. I fight with quickness and wit, rather than with brute force and strength. I call myself a duelist because I honed my skills in duels with warriors I encountered over the years."

Right nodded. "And you're the captain of a ship?" he asked.

"Yes. The Siren's Call – my pride and joy. She's seen me from my own Rivain and the isle of Llomerryn to the coast of Par Vollen. All I need is my ship, and the wind at my back. And once my men have had their fill of the pleasures of dry land, we will be off again. We are getting as far away from this Blight as possible."

She invited Right and Zevran to join her at her table, and they continued talking for a while. And then she invited Zevran to visit her ship. Zevran grinned, and glanced at Right. "Oh, Isabela, you and your ridiculous appetites... perhaps we should leave it up to my _friend_ here?" he said.

Isabela was giving him an interested look again. Right abruptly realized that the invitation was for more then just a tour of belowdecks. He glanced at Zevran, and was surprised by the almost challenging look on the elf's face. "Sure, why not – the more the merrier," he found himself saying.

Isabela and Zevran both smiled.

"Let me just let the others know we're going," Right said, and went back over to where he'd left the others. Oghren had disappeared; Alistair was still sitting there, feeding scraps from his plate to Stench.

"Zevran's bumped into an old friend and he and I are going down to the docks with her for a while," he said. "Think you can keep Oghren out of trouble while we're gone?"

Alistair snorted. "Should be easy enough. He just went in back a few minutes ago with a full bottle, and a girl dwarf under each arm. At least I think they were both girls," Alistair added with a frown. "Do dwarven women get really heavy stubble?"

Right snorted and grinned. "Remind me to bug him about that later. I owe him one. Well, enjoy yourself, we'll be back tomorrow morning."

Alistair nodded, though he looked almost panicked at the thought of being left on his own in the brothel. It wasn't until after they'd left that Right remembered Alistair had been raised in the chantry. Brothels might well be a new experience for him. He wondered if Alistair would work up the courage to take advantage of the educational opportunity, and found himself grinning at the thought most of the way down to the docks.

And then took advantage of a few educational opportunities himself.


	52. Wanderers and Werewolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sky was just greying toward dawn when Isabella woke them up and kicked them off her ship. She was very pleasant about it, of course, but firm – she had a tide to catch, and needed them off. The farewell kiss the three of them shared before Right and Zevran headed back down the gangplank to the dock drew catcalls and whistles from her crew and the dockworkers. Right could feel his ears heating with an embarrassed flush. Zevran just grinned widely and fairly strutted down the gangplank.

The sky was just greying toward dawn when Isabella woke them up and kicked them off her ship. She was very pleasant about it, of course, but firm – she had a tide to catch, and needed them off. The farewell kiss the three of them shared before Right and Zevran headed back down the gangplank to the dock drew catcalls and whistles from her crew and the dockworkers. Right could feel his ears heating with an embarrassed flush. Zevran just grinned widely and fairly strutted down the gangplank.

"Show-off," Right muttered.

"Of course," Zevran agreed.

They returned to the Pearl, where they found a surprisingly sober Oghren eating an enormous breakfast, Alistair sitting beside him looking disgruntled and tired and only picking at his food.

"Hey, good to see you again, boss," Oghren said. "You two have a good night, I take it?"

Right grinned. "You could say that, yes," he agreed, and waved a waitress over, pointing at Oghren's overloaded plate. "I'll have what he's having."

"I would like three buckwheat pancakes, with fresh berries and whipped cream, and a small pot of very strong tea," Zevran asked. "And a cherry pastry."

"That's hardly a proper breakfast," Oghren sneered. "Breakfast is supposed to be a whole pile of fried things, dripping with grease, and porridge so thick you can turn the bowl upside down and it doesn't fall out."

"For you perhaps, but I prefer to start my day with things I can recognize. And this is likely one of the few times I'll be able to have something nice without Sten walking off with my baked goods."

"Alistair, why aren't you eating?" Right asked. Given his usual appetite for anything even remotely edible, he was starting to feel worried that Alistair might be sick.

Alistair sat back in his chair. "I'm... just not particularly hungry this morning," he said, folding his arms.

Oghren laughed. "He's just sulking."

"I am not sulking!" Alistair exclaimed, sitting up in his chair.

"Are too," Oghren said, then turned to Right and grinned. "Seems the boy wonder here didn't consider that people might find it a little _strange_ if he wanted a room for just himself and the dog. In a _brothel_!" he added, and broke out into uproarious laughter.

Right looked at Alistair. He was blushing. Right found his own mouth stretching into an amused grin. He couldn't help it. Zevran was starting to make suspicious sputtering sounds as well, which wasn't helping matters any. He bit his lip to stop from snickering.

Oghren reached over and clapped Alistair on the shoulder. "Could have been worse," he told the embarrassed warrior. "You might have gotten drunk and asked for one of the house specials. And woken up next to an embarrassed _nug_!"

That did it. Right fairly roared with laughed. Alistair blushed even more red, then started to laugh as well. "All right, point taken," he agreed. "I suppose I might even have woken up next to a _bearded dwarf_ if I wasn't careful enough," he added, looking pointedly at Oghren.

"Hey!" Oghren yelped. "I thought she was a he... I mean he was a she... I mean... and anyway _nothing happened_! Awww, forget it!" he exclaimed, and hunched down in his chair, looking almost as embarrassed now as Alistair had been. "Let's talk about something else," he muttered.

"Oh-ho? What's this?" Zevran asked, given the dwarf a wicked look. "Now this I have to hear," he said, resting his elbows on the table, and propping his chin up on interlaced fingers. "Has the drunken one had some interesting carnal adventures that he neglected to mention?"

Alistair grinned. Oghren gave him a dirty look. "Don't forget I have an axe, boy," Oghren growled at him. "A really, really sharp one."

Right and Zevran laughed again.

"I think I'm hungry after all," Alistair said, sounding pleased with himself, and dug into his food, his appetite clearly restored.

The waitress returned with Right and Zevran's food. Right pretty much inhaled his serving; he was done well before Zevran. He settled back in his chair, feeling content, and looked around at his companions. Oghren had regained his good humour, and was telling some joke to Alistair that involved a lot of whispering and complicated hand gestures. Alistair was actually sniggering about whatever it was, his ears bright red. Zevran was... Right stared at him. The elf gave him an evil grin, and popped another berry into his mouth, then licked a drip of whipped cream off his fingers.

"Fancy breakfast in bed some time?" Zevran asked in a low voice, eyes sparkling with evil good humour.

Right didn't trust himself to speak, and just nodded. Zevran's smile widened, and he dipped and ate another berry. Right gulped, tore his eyes away from the sight of Zevran licking more whipped cream off his fingers, then stole his pastry as revenge.

* * *

Sergeant Kylon had another little job for them when they returned to the market – more mercenaries were disturbing the peace in another bar, this time the Gnawed Noble tavern – and Master Ignacio had another couple of scrolls of interesting reading for Right, neither of them for anything in Denerim.

Right was pleasantly surprised by how well Kylon rewarded them; the first person in far too long that actually paid anything close to what their work had been worth. Overpaid, if anything. But once his task was taken care of, there was really no more reason to linger in Denerim, and every reason to get back on the move. At least they were now well-supplied and actually in possession of a little more money then they'd started out with the day before; that was good progress, of a sort.

They headed back out of the city, collected the rest of their party, and headed off to the Brecilian Forest.

* * *

"Stop right there, outsider. The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere – and quickly."

Right eyed the elven woman blocking his path. She had a haughty look on her heavily tattooed face, and was eyeing him and his companions with undisguised dislike. She was also backed up by several other elves, and all of them were well-armed. He had little doubt that there were more around, where he couldn't see them, though the way Zevran's eyes were slowly tracking from point to point around them, he suspected Zev knew where they were.

"Actually, I've been looking for the Dalish," he told her.

"I find that hard to believe. What business could we Dalish possibly have with a group like yours?" she asked.

"I am a Grey Warden. I wish to speak to your leader," Right calmly answered her.

"A Grey Warden? How do I know you're telling the truth?" she asked suspiciously.

Right snorted. "Many people go about pretending to be Grey Wardens, do they?" he asked.

"No, that's true. Perhaps I should let the keeper decide for himself," she said hesitantly, then continued curtly. "In the camp, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself and remember that our arrows are still trained on you. Follow me."

She led the way to the tribe's Keeper, a man named Zathrian. He explained that the elves were currently unable to fulfil the terms of the ancient treaty; they'd recently been attacked by werewolves, and many of their warriors were either dead, or very sick.

Somehow Right wasn't surprised when the suggested remedy to this problem was for him to help the elves by dealing with the werewolves; Zathrian claimed that he could break the curse if only Right could obtain for him the heart of Witherfang, the beast at the core of the problem.

Somewhere, Right suspected, the Ancestors were laughing at him.

* * *

The Brecilian Forest was a maze of narrow paths and winding game trails, webbed by narrow, noisy streams of water and filled with a quantity of life that Right could never have imagined, back in the dry dusty caves of Orzammar. It... took his breath away, in some ways. Oh, true, in his travels he's seen many different environments already – the tall pine forests around Ostagar, the fecund swamps of the Korcari Wilds, the sere hills around Redcliffe, and the grasslands of the Bannorn – but this was _different_. Profoundly so. The feel of it reminded him of Stone sense, but more... vivid. _Alive_. In constant change, where the Stone was static. If dwarves believed in Stone, living surrounding by it as they did, did elves believe in Forest? Or nature, or trees, or whatever other word was suitable for this... force.

Bu the forest was filled with a lot more then just trees, mosses, ferns and flowers – there was also abundant wildlife, and little of it of the friendly variety. It wasn't long before they were set upon by wolves, and soon after that they had to battle a bear that they stumbled over, disturbing its feeding on the corpse of a recently dead templar. Right wondered why the man had been here in the forest, seemingly alone, but there was nothing on the body to provide any clue.

And then the werewolves appeared, blocking their path. And _talked_. Zathrian had dismissed any suggestion that the attack of the werewolves might have shown anything more then animal cunning, but it was obvious that these were not unthinking creatures.

"You speak? I thought werewolves were savage beasts," Right said, startled.

"We are beasts, but we are no longer simple and mindless. Let _that_ thought chill your spine," the werewolf all but snarled. "You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters. Turn back now, go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed. Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!"

"I would prefer to talk to you. I mean you no harm," Right responded.

"Was it not Zathrian who sent you? He wishes only our destruction, never to talk!" Swiftrunner spat.

"You talk of Zathrian as if you know him."

"We have never met, he and I. He would not survive the experience, I swear it," the werewolf growled.

"Why, exactly? Why do you hate him so much?" Right asked.

"You know nothing, do you? Nothing of us and even less of those you serve. You are a fool, and we are done talking. Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed."

Right shook his head. "I don't want to fight, but neither can I retreat."

Swiftrunner frowned. "I do not wish to fight you, either, but we cannot trust you," he said, then turned away. "Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders as it always has."

He and his brethren raced away, soon disappearing among the trees.

Not long afterwards, Right and his group did encounter some of those eyes. The sound of snarls drew their attention to a sizable group of werewolves clustered on a low rise nearby, who noticed their presence in turn almost immediately, and charged to the attack. Unlike Swiftrunner and his companions, these showed not the least hint on intelligence in their manner or look, just acted and reacted like simple beasts. Right wondered what caused the difference.

It was only after they killed the group of them that they noticed the wounded elf nearby, on a ledge partway down the hillside from where the werewolves had been. By the look of it, he must have been attacked by them. They couldn't leave him there to die; quickly rigging a simple litter out of a couple of small saplings and some blankets, they carried him back to the Dalish encampment.

"Don't say anything about the talking werewolves," Right said quietly as they approached the camp. "I'm suddenly not sure this Zathrian can be trusted."

* * *

The elves were glad of the return of one of their missing hunters. By now it was late in the day; Right and his friends set up camp in the forest within sight of the Dalish aravels, on a rise of land overlooking the small lake nearby.

Supper that evening was unusually good; Zevran's resupply at Denerim had given him access to a much wider range of seasonings to use then previously, and he'd traded with a young Dalish for some game birds. Spit roasted over a slow, smokey fire, they had an amazing flavour.

Afterwards they all gathered around the fire to tend their gear and weapons, even Wynne joining them for once as she repaired a split seam on one of her robes, then darned some socks for Alistair. "You're going to have to learn how to do this yourself, you know," she told him severely. "I'm only willing to do this once."

"And I appreciate it more then you can imagine," Alistair promised her. "My feet thank you from the bottom of their soles."

Wynne snorted, but a slight smile twitched at the corners of her lips.

"We should all stay close to our own camp tonight," Zevran said quietly. "The Dalish are not friendly sorts; they would look poorly on any of us found wandering too close to their encampment after dark."

Right nodded. "They did seem pretty unfriendly, even after we offered to help them," Right agreed, thinking of the open hostility several of them had shown him earlier that day. "I'm surprised that storyteller didn't have more stories about the werewolves, considering how long they've supposedly been haunting this forest. Or maybe he just didn't feel like telling us any of them."

Alistair sat up. "You know, there's a Ferelden legend about a talking werewolf. Dane and the werewolf... I can't remember the whole story myself, but Dane was out hunting and met a talking werewolf, and they struck a bargain and switched places, and Dane lived as a werewolf with the wolves for a year, while the werewolf took his place. I forget all the things that happened after that, apart from Dane killing most of the werewolves later. Our mabari war hounds are said to be descended from the wolf pack, who stayed with Dane even after he wasn't a werewolf any more. And Dane was also the foster-father of Hafter, the first Teryn, who fought the second blight. Hafter was supposedly the son a werewolf. It sounds like it was all pretty complicated."

"Complicated," Oghren snorted. "Isn't it always?"

"I suppose so," Alistair agreed. "You know, a lot of Ferelden noble houses claim to be descended from Hafter. It's supposed to be part of why we're on such good terms with our dogs," he added with a smile.

Stench looked up and whined, then wagged his tail happily when Zevran tossed him a scrap of food.

No one felt like sparring that evening – they'd already done more then enough fighting that day. Right was feeling a little disgruntled, it was still too early in the evening to go to bed, and for once he'd run out of things to do; his gear was all in good condition, he didn't have anything new to read, and no one really seemed to be in the mood for conversation.

Zevran leaned over. "Let's go for a walk," he suggested.

"I thought you said the Dalish wouldn't like us wandering around."

"We'll be fine, I don't intend to go anywhere near their camp," Zevran said. "Come."

Right gave in, and rose to his feet, following the elf away. They walked down to the lake, then paralleled its shore for a while, moving away from both their encampment and the Dalish. Eventually they reached a point where both were well out of sight behind them. Zevran smiled charmingly at Right. "Join me for a swim?" he asked, gesturing at the lake.

"I... don't really know how," Right said uneasily, eyeing the calm waters.

Zevran smiled. "That's okay. I don't think we'll be going out very far. Or doing much actual swimming, come to think of it," he said thoughtfully.

Right laughed. "Oh, _that_ kind of swim," he said. "Sure, why not."

The water was still warm from the sun, the night quiet, disturbed only by the sounds of small wildlife giving their evening chorus. Being in the water made things interestingly different; it changed the way things felt, changed the ways in which they moved. The buoyancy made things interesting in another way; some positions that were too awkward or clumsy on dry land due to the disparity in their heights worked surprisingly well in the water. By the time they redressed and started back to camp, Right was in a considerably better mood.


	53. Questions, Questions!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The darkspawn had made it as far as the forest.

The darkspawn had made it as far as the forest.

Not in any great numbers, thankfully, but the small band of hurlocks they stumbled across were accompanied by an ogre. It was a pretty frantic fight at first, until they got themselves sorted out, Alistair keeping the ogre occupied while the rest of them cut down the smaller darkspawn, then all of them teaming up to carve the thing to pieces.

Right had to think for a while to identify how long it had been since they'd last encountered darkspawn; over a month ago, down in the Deep Roads. They proceeded more cautiously after that, Right and Alistair having to make a conscious effort to remain aware of any warning tingle that would signal the presence of more darkspawn; they'd fallen out of the habit of _feeling_ for them, in the weeks since their last encounter.

Unfortunately there were other dangers in the forest that their tainted senses were of no use in warning them about. It wasn't until a tree tried to stomp on Oghren that they discovered that here, not all plants were immobile, insentient things. They encountered more and more of the walking trees for a while, then bumped into a _talking_ one. Which talked in rhymes.

"Heh. It's a _poet tree_. A poetry. Don't you get it?" Oghren said, and laughed much more loudly then the joke really deserved.

The tree, it developed, had a boon to ask of them; its acorn had been stolen recently, and it wanted them to find and return it. Right wondered what had stolen it – an exceptionally brave squirrel, perhaps? – and numbly agreed to the creature's request.

"What was that, my friend?" Zevran asked as they walked away, Right muttering darkly to himself.

"I said, the Ancestors must be browning their drawers they're laughing so hard at me. I've just accepted a quest to find a poet tree's _lost nut_ ," Right said, and shook his head. "The Ancestor's hate me. What did I ever do to deserve this!"

Zevran laughed.

* * *

More wandering after that. They found a very nice campsite, sitting strangely abandoned in a forest glade not far from where they're encountered the talking tree; as they poked around the site, a strange lethargy came over Right. It... bothered him. He couldn't place just why at first, and then recognized the feeling; the sloth demon they're encountered in the Tower, that had sent them to the Fade; they'd felt just like this as it lulled them into unconsciousness.

The sheer rush of terror he felt at the mere thought of being trapped in the Fade again woke him up, to find his companions all down, senseless. The pretty campsite was gone, revealed as a charnel pit of rotting bodies, in every stage from a gruesomely fresh elf – one of the missing hunters, perhaps – to ancient moldering bones. A demon erupted from the ground, and Right had to fight the thing on his own. Thankfully it was a comparatively small and weak one, and with the energy from his surge of fear still pounding through his veins, he managed to defeat it. As it faded away, his companions, woke, groaned, and discovered to their horror the true state of the glade.

Wynne insisted on them burying the remains – the fresher ones, anyway. Right found a few odds and ends that might help to identify the dead – and failing that, might be either useful or saleable – and made sure to pack them away.

After that they resumed their interrupted journey, deeper into the forest. More attacks by mindless werewolves, and then they came across an injured one, another of the talking ones, that begged them to kill her. Her name was Danyla, she said, and she told them that she'd been one of the Dalish elves before this curse happened to her. She asked them to bring word of her death to her husband, Athras, then again begged them to kill her, being in overwhelming pain from her injuries and the curse. Grimly, Right ended her misery, and they continued on, seeking the answer behind this mystery of the curse, of the speaking and unspeaking werewolves.

More bears, more walking trees, before they stumbled across a tiny campsite tucked in among some ruins, occupied by a crazed-looking hermit. He had a crude staff; a mage of some kind then, a hedge-wizard or perhaps an apostate. It was hard to draw any information out of the madman. He seemed deeply paranoid, and insisted on having questions answered for any question he'd answer in turn, and never seemed to believe the answers given, no matter what was said. He did, however, turn out to have the acorn that the Grand Oak had wanted, and Right easily traded for it with a ring he'd found at the demon's encampment.

The only route they could find forward after that was blocked somehow; a swirling mist filled it, and any attempts to penetrate the mist led them eventually right back out the way they'd entered. Right recalled the Grand Oak saying that the reward for the return of its acorn would be something that would make the forest think they were a part of it; perhaps that would get them past this seemingly magical ward.

They trekked back to where they'd seen the tree, and traded in the acorn for a chunk of its wood. By the time they'd dealt with yet another attack by werewolves, and a group of bears they disturbed at their feeding, it was late afternoon. Right hated to waste time, but decided it would be best for them to return to the Dalish encampment for another night's sleep before resuming explorations the next day.

* * *

Athras, the husband of the Dalish-turned-werewolf they'd slain was easy to find; he was almost pitifully grateful to hear of his wife's end, and pressed a small reward on them before withdrawing to mourn her privately.

Right frowned, and decided it was time to talk to Zathrian about the fact that at least some of the werewolves could talk.

Zathrian was dismissive of his claims, attributing Danyla's capacity for speech as likely being due to how recent her transformation had been, and brushing off mention of Swiftrunner and his ilk. Once again he reiterated that the only cure for his warriors was for Right to slay the spirit named Witherfang, and bring him its heart. After which he refused to discuss the subject any further.

Right decided not to press the elf for more information. More and more, he was coming to feel that the man was not trustworthy; even if he deigned to tell them more, Right didn't know if he could believe what Zathrian said.

* * *

The branch from the Grand Oak served it's purpose; the misty barrier faded away as they approached, and they were able to continue deeper into the forest.

They were approaching some ruins when Swiftrunner appeared, once again blocking their path.

"The forest has not been vigilant enough. Still you come," he growled. "You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!"

Right snorted. "You don't actually expect me to leave, do you?" he asked.

"You came even though we warned you not to. You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!"

"I've no intention of harming Witherfang. I want to talk."

"I do not believe you. I will not _risk_ believing you," Swiftrunner snarled. "You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!"

And he attacked. Right swore, and drew his weapons. The talking werewolves were somewhat better fighters then their unspeaking brethren, but not by much; in a very short time, most of Swiftrunner's packmates were down and dead, Swiftrunner himself fallen and at the mercy of Right and his group.

A white form leapt down from a nearby bank, crashing into Right and sending him sprawling backwards. A huge wolf, its legs and haunches wrapped with odd growths, like the woody stems of climbing vines. It snarled, holding them at bay for a moment, just long enough for Swiftrunner to scramble to his feet and escape, before turning and dashing off after him.

"That would have been Witherfang, I think," Wynne said calmly.

"Certainly matched the description Zathrian gave us," Right agreed.

As they continued toward the nearby ruins – seemingly the home of the werewolves – Alistair stepped forward to walk by Right's side.

"Why are you so insistent on wanting to talk with these creatures?" he asked curiously. "Wouldn't it be easier just to kill them?"

"Probably," Right agreed. "But I'd like to know more about them. I've made decisions before on too little knowledge, and regretted it later. Now... I'd rather know more about just what exactly the situation is, before coming to a decision, if it's possible."

Alistair nodded in understanding. Neither of them needed to speak Connor's name to know what previous decision Right was referring to.


	54. An Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interior of the ruins reminded Right of the ruined temple where they'd found the Urn of Andraste. Not quite so big, but with the same sort of grandeur to the architecture. And where the temple had been overcome by ice and snow, here it was the forest that was slowly taking over, shafts of bright sunlight streaming in through fallen areas of ceiling or wall, vast tree roots and vines snaking in and cloaking the hard stone in tangles of woody growth and soft greenery.

The interior of the ruins reminded Right of the ruined temple where they'd found the Urn of Andraste. Not quite so big, but with the same sort of grandeur to the architecture. And where the temple had been overcome by ice and snow, here it was the forest that was slowly taking over, shafts of bright sunlight streaming in through fallen areas of ceiling or wall, vast tree roots and vines snaking in and cloaking the hard stone in tangles of woody growth and soft greenery.

The ruined temple had been dead, silent save for when the sounds of battle echoed through its halls; this place was filled with the sounds of life. Dripping water, the rasping of some insect, peeping frogs, even the twitter of birds nesting in the cascading greenery.

Right wasn't surprised to find the ruins supported larger wildlife as well; more of the giant spiders they'd encountered elsewhere. He hated the things, making expressions of disgust as he picked remnants of their sticky webs off after they'd killed the last of them.

As they proceeded further into the ruins, they heard a reverberant growling sound, and came to an abrupt halt, looking around nervously.

"What... was that?" Alistair said in a hushed voice.

"I don't know," Right answered, equally hushed, "But I don't like it."

They waited, but the sound didn't reoccur. Slowly, nervously, they moved forward again, weapons in hand, trying to keep watch in all directions at once. Which at least had the benefit that Zevran and Right caught sight of the numerous traps just inside the next large room they came to before anyone inadvertently stepped on any of them.

While the others hung back, Right carefully disarmed the traps, one by one. He was on the second last one when a large form detached from the ceiling and dropped down, cupping wings to glide to a halt nearby. It roared, spouting fire. A dragon! Thankfully only a small one, not much bigger then the drakes they'd encountered months before at the ruined temple; nothing like the full-grown monster they'd seen on top of the mountain. And not significantly harder to kill then those drakes had been, though the necessity of dodging its blasts of flame made the fight a little more exciting then they could have wished.

They were winded and in need of a short rest by the time they had it dead. While Alistair and Oghren sat down and caught their breath, Zevran and Right poked around the chamber, pleased to find that the legends that claimed dragons liked to hoard shiny things were true; tucked off to one side of the chamber they found a satisfyingly large pile of assorted coins, gems, and other things. The coin alone totalled almost 20 sovereigns in value.

It was obvious from the presence of the dragon – and several well-roasted, gnawed-upon corpses – that this way couldn't be the route the werewolves used to access their dens within the ruins, but as it was the only unblocked way further into the ruins that Right had been able to find, he decided they might as well press on, and hope it would eventually link up with wherever it was the werewolves were.

They continued on, down a long sloping tunnel and further into the ruins.

* * *

The lower ruins proved to be haunted in more then one way. As they emerged from the earthen tunnel that had brought them down to this lower section of the place, Right caught a glimpse of a pale, ghostly figure fleeing before them, right before they were attacked by a group of reanimated skeletons. It was not the last ghost they were to glimpse in their exploration of the ruins, which proved to be swarming with undead creatures and yet more of the giant spiders. Many of the worst attacks they came under happened after glimpsing one of the ghostly ones; Right wasn't sure if it was just coincidence, or if the ghosts were somehow rousing the undead against them.

This section of the ruins seemed to have been some kind of burial area; they found many old sarcophagi and coffins in the side rooms. In one particularly grand chamber they came upon a very large sarcophagus on a central dais, broken open in some long ago disruption to the chamber. Another of the ghostly elves paced near it; as as they approached it seemed to grow more agitated. It seemed _aware_ of them, and then, angered or frightened, he was never sure which, it summoned two demons to its aid, and attacked them. Both demons and ghost died as easily as everything else they'd encountered so far. Though perhaps _died_ wasn't quite the right word for what happened to something already dead. Discorporated? De-animated? Disassembled?

The elven remains within the broken sarcophagus had been reduced by time and the elements to a few shards of bone, but the armour it had been wearing gleamed as if new-made. Right carefully lifted a gleaming silverite gauntlet, looking it over. The leather fittings of the armour were long gone, crumbled to dust, but those would be easy enough to replace...

"This is too good to just leave here," he said. "Armour like this should be used, not... buried away like this."

"But... it's grave robbing..." Alistair hesitantly pointed out.

Right snorted. "And plundering usable weapons and armour from the tombs in the Dead Trenches wasn't? Better we take it and use it then leave it for the undead or darkspawn."

"Now you're starting to sound like Bodahn," Alistair said dryly.

"He's a practical man. So am I," Right said, and started carefully removing all of the bits and pieces of armour, gently returning any remains within them to their original resting place.

"Zevran? What do you think?" Alistair asked. "You're an elf..."

"And also a practical man. I agree with Right, this armour is too good to leave to rust. Not that I think it would – rust, I mean. Whomever made this was a master craftsman," he said as he crouched down to help Right, looking over a bracer admiringly.

"Fine, plundering the dead it is then, I suppose," Alistair agreed with a sigh, and started finding room for the assorted pieces in their packs. Right noticed him giving an appreciative look at the helmet before packing it away, and hid a smile. It was about time they got Alistair some better armour anyway, he judged; the set of King Cailan's armour he was in was very good of its kind, but it had been made more for show then for long-term wear, and was showing the effects of months of near-continuous use; it was badly in need of refurbishment. This set they'd found only needed the leather work replaced to be far superior.

They continued on, fighting more of the undead. The things were almost ridiculously easy to kill; like darkspawn, it was more their numbers then their skills that made them dangerous. A lone adventurer here would be in serious trouble; a full party like Right's had no great difficulty.

Of course, merely thinking that served to jinx them. The next door Right threw open proved to lead into a sizable room, well-lit by streams of sunshine streaming in through vine-wrapped clerestory arches along one side of the high ceiling. After the dimness of the tunnels, it made his eyes water; he'd taken a step in before he noticed something moving in the shadows beyond the streams of light, and heard an arrow whipping by his ear. It was his flinch away from it and resultant overbalance from the heavy pack on his back that saved him; as a pressure plate grated under his foot he was already falling over backwards. The jets of fire triggered by the plate missed him, though they passed close enough that he could feel the heat of them, even through his leathers. He yelped, and scuttled backwards out of the room, keeping low as more arrows whipped by overhead, tall gaunt figures emerging from the darker corners of the room and advancing towards him.

Skeleton archers, and quite a lot of them. And from his low angle, he could see that there were more traps in the room then just the one he'd triggered; a lot more.

He quickly ordered his group back down the hallway and around a corner into a side hall; the archers, who would have been extremely difficult to deal with when spread out in the well-trapped room, mindlessly followed, clustering at the bend of the hallway. Right and his group waded in to the group of them, Right, Zevran and Oghren spinning like whirlwinds, their blades shattering the skeletons in a nearly explosive fashion, bits of bone and destroyed weaponry showering down around them.

Right commanded everyone to wait in the hallway while he entered the room and dealt with the traps. It was tedious work, locating each pressure plate, then carefully jamming or wrecking the mechanism that would have allowed it to trigger something nastily lethal at them. Finally he was done, and signalled the others to enter. "Let's take a break here," he suggested. "I'm feeling half-starved,"

Alistair nodded agreement to that, and they quickly set up a temporary campsite there, building a fire from some of the woodier parts of the massive vines that wrapped the stonework in the sunlit half of the room. Zevran threw together a simple lunch for them – tea, well-sweetened with honey, and toasted cheese on thick slices of soft crusty bread, making seconds and then thirds for the two Grey Wardens without even having to be asked first; he was well aware by now of the extent of their appetite. And of Alistair's love of cheese. _He_ had a fourth helping.

Right was glad he'd taken an opportunity for a break when they reached the next big room; it started with a moderately large melee versus a bunch of undead, then as the fight moved down the stairs he realized there was something even worse in the room; an abomination. As they struggled to fight it, more skeletons and undead poured into the room, and every time they tried to close with it, it transported itself to a new position in the room, filling the air with crackling steams of stinging energy. Finally Right shouted for everyone to retreat to the stairs, and try ranged weapons instead; that proved effective, and in a surprisingly short time, the abomination was dead, and all that remained was to finish off the last few remaining undead.

There were side rooms off to either side of the bigger room – and that was it. They appeared to have reached a dead end. Right stood a moment, muttering a string of curses, then started to turn away, to lead the way back out of the ruins and seek another way in.

It was the darkness of the small, half-collapsed chamber they were in that betrayed another path; as he turned, he glimpsed a nrighter area in the pool of dark water occupying much of the floor. Taking a second, closer look at the pool, he realized there were steps leading down into the water, and a tunnel leading off to one side, light from some open area beyond just barely visible through the arched opening.

Shale was volunteered to scout the route, since being submerged made no difference to her. She walked down under the water, and disappeared into the tunnel, returning just moments later.

"It's very short," she reported. "Even you squishy creatures should be able to travel it safely."

After a short debate, they piled most of what they were carrying off to one side; anything that would be harmed by being submerged, or that wasn't of immediate use. They'd have to come back and recover it all later.

* * *

The room they emerged in was thankfully free of opposition; they had a chance to dry off and re-equip all their gear before proceeding. The room after that was not so simple, it had started as a large, open room but the werewolves had erected barriers across it, restricting movement through it to a narrow trapped path. And they'd no sooner entered it when the werewolves became aware of their presence, attacking them in number from out of the shadows. In the close confines, with the traps, it was a rather desperate fight at first.

Alistair was down, a werewolf ripping feverishly at him, saved from being disemboweled or having his throat ripped out only by his heavy plate armour. Right sunk his weapons into its flanks and side, finally killing it, only to have another werewolf send him flying to the ground in turn. For a moment his vision was filled with japing jaws, lined with sharp fangs, then the werewolf yelped and went flying away through the air, ribs caved in by a blow from Shale.

Oghren was shouting something – probably something obscene – as he hacked away at another werewolf. Zevran was in the doorway between the two rooms, defending it from all comers, Wynne crouched behind him, firing bolts of energy around him as she could. Right scrambled over and joined him, the two keeping the lightly clad healer protected while their more heavily armoured companions dealt with the waves of attacking werewolves.

Finally the last fell dead, and they were able to catch their breaths, Right and Zevran disabling the traps so they could proceed deeper into the ruins.

The next room they entered was also full of werewolves; but these, rather then attacking, stood well back from the door, watching Right and his group, growling menacingly but staying where they were. An older male, its fur silvered with age, stood in the middle of the room, watching them intently.

Right hesitated, then slowly walked forward, hands well away from his own weapons.

"We do not want any more of our people hurt," the werewolf suddenly said. "I ask you this now, outsider – are you willing to parley?"

"We are talking right now, aren't we? So talk," Right told him.

"Not with me. I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes that you may not be aware of everything you should be. She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one."

"If you were willing to talk, why didn't you earlier?" he asked.

"Swiftrunner did not think it would matter. The Lady disagrees, and since you have forced your way this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes."

"Then take me to this Lady," Right agreed.

She proved to be in a second, much larger chamber not far away. The room seethed with werewolves, gathered along the walls and on a circular dais at the centre. They were clearly unhappy about the presence of Right and his group, growling warningly, pacing back and forth, clawed fingers flexing as if they longed to rend flesh.

The Lady walked out of the shadows and joined the werewolves on the dais, her presence seeming to calm them. She looked vaguely human, overall, though her skin was a grey tone no human or elf would ever have, and her limbs were wrapped in the same strange woody vine-like growths as the white wolf they'd encountered outside the ruins. Apart from the vines and her long black hair, she was naked.

"I bid you welcome, mortal. I am the Lady of the Forest," she said.

"Thank you. I am glad we have this chance to talk."

"Do not listen to him, Lady! He will betray you! We must attack him now!" Swiftrunner demanded.

The Lady reached out and touched his mane, soothing him. "Hush, Swiftrunner. Your urge for battle has only seen the death of the very ones you have been trying to save. Is that what you want?" she asked softly.

Swiftrunner frowned, then lowered himself submissively to one knee. "No, my lady. Anything but that."

"Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside," she told him, then turned to face Right again. "I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles with his nature."

"As do we all, Lady."

"Truer words were never spoken. But few could claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse forced upon them. No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things that Zathrian has not told you."

Right gave her a curious look. "How do you know what he has or has not told me?"

"Because there are things that he _would not_ tell. Things that you should decide for yourself whether you need to know. It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer, the same curse that Zathrian's own people now suffer," she said. She took a deep breath, twisting her fingers together, looking unhappy. "Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away. Zathrian was a young man then. He had a son and daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting the human tribe captured them both..."

She trailed off. Swiftrunner spoke up. "The humans... tortured the boy, killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was... with child. She... killed herself."

"So Zathrian cursed them, I take it?" Right asked.

Swiftrunner nodded. "Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be. Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures..."

"Twisted and savage just as Witherfang himself is." the Lady said, softly.

"So the Dalish leader misled us?" Shale interrupted, sounding displeased.

"You are not surprised," Sten commented to Shale.

"No, just trying to picture his little elf head... squishing... ah, there we go." Shale said thoughtfully.

The Lady of the Forest ignored the byplay and continued her story. "They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals."

"Until I found you, my lady. You gave me peace," Swiftrunner interjected.

She smiled fondly at the great werewolf. "I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me."

"Why did you ambush the Dalish? For revenge?"

"In part," she reluctantly admitted, then raised her head, speaking firmly. "We seek to _end_ the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead. "Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us. We will no longer be denied!"

"We spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!" Swiftrunner agreed.

"Please, mortal... you must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight... surely he will agree to end the curse!"

Right frowned. "I think he just wishes to cure his own people, nothing else."

"We... cannot know that. Surely his rage does not run so deep he would endanger his own clan!" the lady exclaimed. "If Zathrian comes, I shall summon Witherfang. I possess that power. I also have the power to ensure Witherfang is never found. Tell Zathrian this. If he does not come, if he does not break the curse, he will never find Witherfang, and he will never cure his people."

Right nodded slowly. "Very well. I will go to Zathrian and tell him this."

* * *

The Lady had the werewolves open a shortcut for them, a single long rising staircase that led back to the upper ruins. Right asked Sten and Shale to go back via the flooded passage, and bring their gear back out from the lower ruins the long way; with them having already cleared out the vast majority of the undead and spiders and traps through there, those two should be capable of bringing it all out on their own.

They went up the long stairs, eventually emerging in the first chamber of the upper ruins. Right was surprised to see Zathrian there, looking some of the corpses of the werewolves they'd been attacked by there earlier that day. He looked up as they approached, and rose to his feet.

"Ah. And here you are already," he said.

"Zathrian? What are you doing here?" Right asked cautiously.

"You have carved a safe path through the forest... safe enough for me to follow, anyhow. There was no way to tell what would happen once you reached this ruin, so I decided to come myself."

"We need to talk, you and I," Right told him grimly.

"Yes, yes, there will be plenty of time for that," Zathrian said dismissively. "Did you acquire the heart?"

"No, I didn't."

"You didn't? May I ask, then, why are you leaving the ruin?" Zathian asked, cocking his head to one side.

"I've been sent to bring you back to the Lady of the Forest."

"Oh? Is _that_ what the spirit calls herself now? And what does she want with me, if I might inquire?"

"It doesn't matter. Come with me now," Right told him.

"Hmm. I send you to kill Witherfang, and now they have turned you against me? Interesting. You do understand that she actually _is_ Witherfang?"

The assertion didn't surprise Right; the similarity in form between the Lady and the white wolf he'd seen was too obvious to be ignored. "Yes, I thought as much."

Zathrian continued talking, admitting that, yes, Witherfang and the curse had been his creation; justifying it to himself by the torment and death of his long-dead children. Right could almost have felt sorry for him – if his curse had only ever affected the people who'd actually harmed them. Instead, the curse had lived on for centuries – as had Zathrian – causing torment and death to hundreds more, many of them likely completely innocent of any wrong doing. He folded his arms, listening patiently until Zathrian ran down, ending with a demand that Right kill Witherfang for him.

"I'm not going to help you do that," he answered, bluntly. "You're going to come with me and at least meet with them; that's what I propose."

"And what if it is revenge they want, and not talk? Will you safeguard me from harm?"

"I will, unless you attack first," Right agreed.

"I fail to see the purpose behind this... but very well. It has been many centuries, now. Let us see what the spirit has to say."

They returned to the chamber where the Lady of the Forest and the werewolves waited. Right wasn't surprised when Zathrian remained adamantly opposed to ending the curse voluntarily; his hatred had run too deep, for too long, and he seemed unable to give it up.

In the end he attacked the werewolves, and Right and his companions had to step in on their side. It wasn't until he'd been beaten, and had no choice but a death that would save no one, and a death that would save both his own people and the werewolves from the curse, that he bitterly agreed to end it.

He released the spell binding the Lady to the great wolf; it ended the curse, and his life. The white wolf died as well, having lived far beyond what would have been its natural lifespan as well, and the Lady disappeared, once more nothing but spirit, gone back into the Fade or the forest.

Following the instructions he'd been given by the Lady, Right cut out Witherfang's heart. Its touch removed the lingering effects of the curse from the werewolves, returning them to human form. Saddened by the loss of the lady, but happy to once more be human, they quickly scattered from the ruins, longing to return to human lands and try to resume human lives.

It was a quiet trip back to the Dalish encampment, where the heart also removed the curse from the injured hunters. Landria, now the Keeper for the elves, promised their aid with the blight, in fulfilment of the ancient treaty.

Even though it was already early evening, he elected to move on immediately, not feeling like camping anywhere near the elves; they could get a good few miles away before they had to camp, and the more distance he'd put between him and the elves, the better Right knew he would feel.


	55. Back and Forth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have something for you," Right said, rolling over and digging in the closest pocket of his backpack.

"I have something for you," Right said, rolling over and digging in the closest pocket of his backpack.

"Oh?" Zevran said interestedly, lifting his head, then rolling over to sit up cross-legged as Right shyly held out something. Zevran frowned, puzzled. "Gloves? You're giving me gloves? What for?"

"I, um, thought you might like them..." Right said nervously.

"I did not mean to sound ungrateful, it is just..." Zevran said, staring at the gloves in his hand in confusion, then abruptly stopped, and took a closer look at them. "Wait... these are Dalish, are they not? My mother was Dalish and had a pair very similar to these. The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery... but these are very close. And quite handsome," he added, giving Right a pleased smile.

Right smiled. "You're welcome," he said.

"I admit I am surprised. No one has simply... given me a gift before. And now this is the second time you have done so. Thank you," he said, and leaned forward to give Right a kiss.

Right grinned, looking very pleased. "It was nothing. I just... remembered what you'd said about her, once. As soon as I saw those among the things for barter at the camp, I knew I had to get them for you."

Zevran nodded, looked down, smoothing the leather gloves onto his own hands. Ran a fingertip along the embroidered lines on the back. Drew them off again and put them away in his own pack, carefully. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Right just smiled, then stretched out again on their shared bedroll.

* * *

Over breakfast the next morning, discussion moved to travel plans. Now that they had agreements from the dwarfs, mages and elves to fulfil all three of the treaties they carried, it was time to head back to Redcliffe and see Arl Eamon again. And then, most likely, on to Denerim.

"There's one other thing we'll have to try and find time to do," Right said slowly.

"What's that?" Alistair asked.

"The archdemon is _basically_ just a great big tainted dragon, isn't it?" Right said. "That dragon we encountered in the ruins here got me to thinking – we _do_ know where a real high dragon can be found. It might be worth returning to that mountaintop by Haven to try killing it, if we don't run out of time."

"For practise, you mean?" Zevran asked, sounding interested.

"Yes, exactly," Right said.

"The archdemon will probably be much worse then a high dragon," Alistair said, frowning.

"I know," Right agreed. "But in theory it should be like the difference between fighting a regular wolf and a blight wolf; blight wolves are _worse_ , but they use more or less the same attacks. And have a lot of the same weaknesses. And if we can't handle a high dragon... we haven't a hope of handling the archdemon."

"Good point," Alistair agreed. "All right, that sounds like a good plan."

"Good. Then let's get moving; it's a long walk to Redcliffe," Right said, and got to his feet to begin packing away his things.

* * *

When they arrived at Redcliffe Castle, Right was pleased to see groups of dwarven warriors, elven archers, and human soldiers practising their skills in the courtyard. Inside, they found mages sitting around studying. There weren't many of any of these groups yet – these were just the first to arrive. More should arrive over the coming weeks, swelling this tiny beginning into a real army.

Pleased at the progress that had been made, Right led the way to where Arl Eamon was standing in his great hall, talking quietly to Bann Teagan, his wife Isolde at his side.

Eamon and Teagan were both pleased to see them, but Isolde gave them an icy look and withdrew from the room.

"Greetings, Grey Wardens," Arl Eamon said, nodding his head vaguely toward both Right and Alistair. "I understand you've acquired all the allies you could? That's good... we can call the Landsmeet, if you are ready. I would prefer not giving Loghain time to consider, but it is up to you. I do not wish to go to Denerim unless you are with me."

"We're ready to go," Right told him.

"Excellent. I've had my things packed and waiting since the first of the elves arrived; I knew you couldn't be far behind. We can depart within the hour," he said, then turned to his brother. "Look after Redcliffe and Isolde for me while I'm gone."

Bann Teagan nodded. Right was slightly disappointed to hear that the Bann would not be accompanying them to Denerim; he rather liked the man.

* * *

Their journey back to Denerim was at a considerably slower pace then Right and his group were used to; Arl Eamon had a large party, including a sizable guard contingent, and not only did it take them a while to get going in the mornings, but the stop for the mid-day meal took longer as well, and they invariably stopped marching for the day several hours earlier then Right would have liked. The increasing feeling that they were running low on time made him feel antsy.

The sudden lack of any real privacy was irksome too. Right was used to it being just a small group, himself and his companions and the occasional presence of Bodahn and Sandal, all of them adept at politely ignoring the relationship between Right and Zevran; even Oghren in his cups had never done anything worse then joke that they needed to keep it down. And suddenly there were stranger's eyes on them _all the time_ , strangers patrolling within earshot of their tent at night, never any moment that was truly private any longer.

Zevran didn't seem to care, but it bothered Right. Worse, it bothered him that it bothered him.

"Are you... having second thoughts?" Zevran asked quietly one night as they lay side by side in their tent. Things had started out well enough when they'd first retired for the night, until a flare of campfire had cast a silhouette of someone on the canvas overhead, reminding Right all too forcefully of how close other people were. He'd... lost his enthusiasm, after that.

Right turned his head to look at the elf. Zevran was stretched out on his stomach, his torso raised up on his elbows, head turned slightly away, looking down at his hands. "No," Right said quietly, rolling over on his side, and reaching up to brush a finger along the tattoo on Zevran's cheek. "Just... feeling inhibited, I guess. It makes me self-conscious, knowing strangers are... looking. Listening. Especially when you're doing things that are making it very, very hard for me to keep quiet," he added ruefully.

Zevran laughed, and turned his head to look at him, teeth gleaming in a pleased smile. "And here I've been thinking you were so quiet because I wasn't exciting you any more," he said, and made a tsking sound. "You should tell me these things sooner. I would have been... less enthusiastic in my attempts to draw you out..."

Right gave a strangled laugh. He could feel himself blushing.

Zevran leaned down and kissed his shoulder. "What about if we both _try_ to be very quiet then," he said, voice a low growl that made Right shiver. " _That_ could be an interesting challenge... seeing that we both enjoy ourselves as fully as possible without undue noise," he whispered, and slid closer to lean over Right, beginning to kiss his way down his throat.

Right gave in. And closed his eyes, so that if the firelight flared up again, he at least couldn't _see_ how close others might be.

* * *

He couldn't decide if it was better or worse once they reached the Arl's estate. He had privacy again – a large bedroom all to himself, with its own sitting area. Wynne, the only noticeably female member of their party, had been given a private room as well.

Alistair also had a private room, on the other side of the castle, close to Arl Eamon's own. The Arl had been keeping Alistair close to him since Redcliffe, endlessly drilling him about protocol, etiquette, the genealogies of the lead families of the kingdom, and whatever other social skills or information he felt Alistair was lacking in as a claimant to the throne. Alistair was looking half-panicked and more then a little put-upon every time Right saw him. Which wasn't frequently; the Arl didn't seem particularly interested in _his_ company. Happy to make use of him and his allies, yes, but not interested in actually socializing with him when it could be avoided.

Their remaining companions – Sten, Oghren, and Zevran – had been given a room of their own. Shale presumably was in with them as well, but seemed to prefer just standing around motionless in odd corners of the estate. Oghren lost no time in ensconcing himself in a comfortable chair in the spacious dining room, and kept a servant busy bringing him food and drink. Mostly drink. Sten wandered the areas permitted to him, happily spending hours at a time looking at the paintings decorating the walls, or sitting in the library or Right's room, reading quietly.

Right wasn't in the least surprised to see that Zevran's bags were piled in one corner of his room, along with his own; clearly the elf had no intention of paying attention to where he was officially supposed to sleep. And Right certainly had no intention of ordering him to do so. The Arl could just keep his overly large nose out of their business.

* * *

He bumped into Alistair and Arl Eamon in the front hallway the morning after their arrival, having emerged from breakfast to find the two of them on their way to the dining room. They'd barely said two words to each other when the front door banged open, and a guard scurried in, pale-faced.

"Beg your pardon, sers," the guard stuttered out, "But the teryn..."

"I can introduce myself," snapped Teryn Loghain, as he swept into the hall, his aide Ser Cauthrian to his right, and a weasel-faced man that matched the descriptions Right had heard of Arl Howe to his left.

"Loghain. This is... an honour, that the regent would find time to greet me personally," the Arl said, drawing himself up and giving Loghain a rather chilly little nod.

"How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?" Loghain sneered.

"The Blight is why I'm here. With Cailan dead, Ferelden _must_ have a king to lead it against the darkspawn," Eamon retorted.

"Ferelden _has_ a strong leader: its queen. And _I_ lead her armies," Loghain snarled.

"Considering Ostagar, perhaps we need a better general," Right said quietly.

Loghain looked down at him, eyes narrowing angrily. "And who is this, Eamon? Some new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you play the nursemaid to, not Orzammar's rejects."

"Well, you're admitting the 'royal' part. That's a start," Alistair muttered under his breath, drawing glares from both Loghain and Eamon.

"I am Right, of the Grey Wardens," Right responded calmly, choosing to ignore the by-play.

"You have my sympathies on what happened to your order. It is unfortunate that they chose to turn against Ferelden," Loghain said, his voice anything but sympathetic.

"I don't accept the sympathies of deserters and regicides," Right answered back sharply, annoyed.

Loghain's eyes narrowed. "You should curb your tongue. This is my city, and no safe place to speak treason. For _anyone_ ," he snapped, then turned away from Right to look at Arl Eamon again. "There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon. Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden."

Eamon raised an eyebrow. "'Illness?' Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these... sycophants."

"How long you've been gone from court, Eamon! Don't you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, and Teyrn of Highever?" Loghain asked, gesturing to the man on his left.

"And current arl of Denerim, after Urien's _unfortunate_ fate at Ostagar. Truly, it is an embarrassment of riches," Arl Howe said unctuously, an unpleasant smirk on his face.

"That's a lot of titles for one man to have," Right observed dryly.

"Don't interrupt, _churl_. Your betters are talking!" Ser Cauthrien snapped at him.

Loghain held up his hand, frowning at her. "Enough, Cauthrien, this is not the time or place," he said, then glowered at Eamon again. "I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened: Our king is dead. Our land is under siege. We _must_ be united now, if we are to endure this crisis. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed? You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne."

"What efforts can there be when you outlaw the Grey Wardens?" Right asked.

"Cailan depended on the Grey Warden's prowess against the darkspawn, and look how well that ended. Let us speak of reality, rather than tall tales. Stories will not save us," Loghain snapped.

Eamon shook his head sadly. "I cannot forgive what you've done, Loghain. Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight."

"The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down," Loghain said, glaring at Eamon. "Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland," he said, then turned and stalked out, Ser Cauthrien following, Arl Howe giving them a mocking bow before turning to follow him out.

"Well, that was... bracing. I didn't expect Loghain to show himself quite so soon," Eamon said quietly once the trio had left.

"Have you known Loghain a long time?" Right asked curiously. From the manner of the two men he'd guess there was a long history between them.

"My sister married King Maric while he was still in exile. At that time, he and Loghain were inseparable," Eamon explained. "The wild prince who'd never seen the inside of a castle, and the farmer's son. When Loghain joined Maric's rebels, he was just a rawboned boy. But he got on one knee to swear that he would see Ferelden free or die trying."

"You sound like you admire him," Alistair said, sounding surprised.

Eamon shrugged. "He made us a free people once more. You can't know what it was like to grow up as a vassal in your own land while poncy little Orlesians minced around in their silks. I would never have believed he would do anything but what was best for Ferelden. But now he kills Maric's son and steals his throne, and conspires with a blood mage to poison me. It is a bitter dose to taste. The Chantry speaks truly about the corruption of power if a man like Loghain could go and do this."

He frowned in thought for a moment, then looked at Right. "We need eyes and ears in the city. Loghain has been here for months. The roots of all his schemes must begin here. The sooner we find them, the better we can turn them to our advantage. Go have a look around and see what you can turn up. Better yet, find the nobles who have arrived for the Landsmeet. Test the waters, see how many will support us. When you're ready to talk strategy, come upstairs to my sitting room. We can lay out our plans for the Landsmeet then."

Right nodded. He didn't particularly care for the way the man was trying to order him around – he was a Grey Warden, not one of Arl Eamon's vassals, after all – but the basic idea was worth following up on, even if he didn't particularly care for the delivery. Though he suspected the Arl had made it mainly to get him out from underfoot; the nobles were unlikely to confide in a complete stranger, and certainly not one that was a dwarf as well. If they were anything like the nobles of Orzammar, they likely regarded anyone not a noble as a lesser being as it was; other races need not apply. Still, there were other way then sounding out the nobles directly to gather information. He'd have to see what he could do.


	56. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right sighed in relief as he stepped out the door of the Arl's estate, and almost laughed to hear Alistair doing the same.

Right sighed in relief as he stepped out the door of the Arl's estate, and almost laughed to hear Alistair doing the same.

He'd elected to choose his companions for the day's rambles based on who was most likely to be able to get people to talk to them; that left out Sten, Shale and Oghren, as too intimidating, too strange, and too aggressively drunk in turn, and meant he was with Alistair, Wynne and Zevran. Wynne was out of her usual mage robes – which would have qualified her as too intimidating as well – and was instead dressed in some rather beautiful elven armour they'd picked up in their travels. Right had been considering it as another gift for Zevran, but the need to make the mage less obviously a mage came first. Wynne had been delighted by the set, since it gave her a chance to try out some rather martial magic they'd obtained a scroll about in the course of their journey through the elven ruins in the Brecilian Forest.

He'd been doubtful about the armour being a significant improvement over her robes as a means of making her less intimidating, but had been assured that there'd been enough skilled women warriors involved in the rebellion years before that the sight of grandmotherly figures who still affected full armour was not as unusual as he might think. Not exactly _common_ , either, but she wouldn't look out of place in it.

His first stop after leaving the estate was to see what progress Wade had been making with the drake scales. The smith was reasonably pleased with this second armour set he'd made with them, and Zevran quite happily equipped the pieces before they returned to the market.

His second stop was to look up Slim Couldry again. This time, the man did indeed have an additional lead for them; Teryn Loghain's seneschal had taken the Teryn's crown out for cleaning prior to the upcoming Landsmeet, and was currently to be found breakfasting at the Gnawed Noble, the crown in his possession. It was a very short term opportunity, and Right hurried to take advantage of it.

The Seneschal was in one of the back rooms. As Right approached the door, a guardsman blocked his way. "Nobody goes in the room. By authority of Teyrn Loghain," the man said, giving Right a look that clearly questioned why he was even in a tavern full of nobles in the first place.

Right gave him a dark look. "Stand aside or be thrown aside," he grated out.

"I'll take none of..." the guard started to respond sharply then abruptly paled. "Sweet Andraste!"

"You know who I am, right? Five guards can't stop me. _Run_." Right said quietly, voice a harsh whisper.

"Th-Thank you. Men, run! Run for your lives!" the guard stuttered, and fled with his men in close step behind.

Right grinned. Some times having a reputation for leaving blood-spattered mayhem in your wake was _fun_.

"I say, what's the meaning of this?" The Seneschal said, looking up and frowning as Right approached his table, nervously looking around for his missing guards.

"As crass as it sounds, this is a robbery," Right told him with a pleased smile.

"A robbery? But you... You're the _Warden_." the man exclaimed, paling almost as dramatically as the guard had. "I... uh... here. Please, spare me!" the man begged, fumbling in his haste to untie a soft cloth sack from his belt, tangling the laces as a result.

"Allow me," Right said, drawing a dagger. The man fainted dead away. Right snorted, cut the knotted cord, and walked away.

When he reported back to Slim to sell him the crown, Slim had word of one last job that Right could try pulling off, he said – called it a "legendary" one. Breaking in to the estate of Bann Franderel, one of the richest men in the entire kingdom. Slim had a route mapped out that would get Right into the estate undetected, and knew where the Bann's treasure room was supposed to be.

Right looked over the information, and decided to give it a try; tonight. Just him and Zevran – he wanted to be in and out quietly, if at all possible.

* * *

"Your dog is following us," Zevran said quietly as he and Right strolled along a Denerim street, working their way toward Bann Franderel's estate. It wasn't quite dark yet, but was getting close; it should be by the time they got there.

"Could be worse," Right said after glancing back. "Could be one of our companions in full plate. Not exactly unobtrusive."

Zevran grinned. Right snapped his fingers, and Stench ran forward, slipping his head under Right's hand to have his ears scratched, tail wagging happily.

"At least he knows how to move quietly," Zevran agreed.

They found their path blocked by two carts that had managed to lock wheels, the drivers involved in a loud argument over whose fault it was. They cut down an alley, seeking a way around, soon reaching an open area. They were crossing it toward where a second alley appeared to lead back to what should be a point beyond where the carts were, when a man stepped into view at the top of the staircase they were approaching.

He was tall and slender, with short-cropped black hair and a scruffy beard. He grinned widely, looking delighted at the sight of the pair of them. "And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last. The Crows send their greetings, once again," he called out.

"So they sent you, Taliesen? Or did you volunteer for the job?" Zevran asked, watching the man warily.

Right glanced back and forth between the two. He remembered Zevran mentioning the name Taliesen before; his partner, the one who'd sliced Rinna's throat open in front of him.

"I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the _great_ Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself," Taliesen said.

"Is that so? Well here I am, in the flesh," Zevran said, holding both hands wide and smiling charmingly.

"You can return with me, Zevran," Taliesen said cajolingly. "I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late. Come back and we'll make up a story. _Anyone_ can make a mistake."

"Zevran belongs with me now," Right said quietly.

Taliesen laughed. "You don't even know who you're talking about, do you?" he said.

"And neither do you, Taliesen," Zevran said, quietly, the very calmness of his voice somehow more menacing then anger would have been. "I'm sorry, my old friend. But the answer is no. I'm not coming back... and you should have stayed in Antiva."

Taliesen scowled, then lifted his hand and signalled. The lengthening shadows seemed to sprout shapes; a whole horde of Crows, weapons in hand, many of them grinning in anticipation as they closed in on the two men.

Oddly appropriate that the collective term for crows was a _murder_ of them, Right thought, as he and Zevran turned, placing themselves back to back. Stench gave a low growl and charged the closest group, bowling two off their feet and immediately starting to worry at one of them.

Right glanced quickly around. Where they were was too open; the Crows included several archers, and with nothing to block their line of sight, those arrows would tear the two of them to shreds while they were trying to deal with the close-in fighters. "Up the stairs – _now_ ," he snapped, and the pair of them turned and dashed upwards side by side, towards and then past a startled-looking Taliesen.

What had looked like a second alleyway at the top proved to be a short dead end passageway. At least it gave them some shelter, forcing Taliesen's forces to attack them from one direction only. Thankfully, with so many of them packed into such a small area, and not as well-practised at fighting together as Righ and Zevran were, they were getting in each other's way more often then not. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, the fight, the effortless co-ordination of their moves, as Crow after Crow was ruthlessly slaughter by the pair.

Zevran feinted; Right took advantage of the opening it created. Right swatted an arrow out of the air that would have hit Zevran; Zevran batted aside a dagger that would have sunk into Right's side. Zevran stabbed at someone's head, making him flinch back; Right ducked and cut low, hamstringing him, and as he went over backwards Zevran lashed out with a powerful kick, sending him flying into the people behind, fouling their weapons and knocking another to the ground, where Stench, ever on the look-out for an opportunity, darted in and savaged him.

At some point they found themselves fighting Taliesen, the one lone swordsman he had left at his side, a pair of worried-looking archers edging back and forth beyond him, looking for an angle to shoot past him at the pair.

Right grinned, stepped to the side, engaged the swordsman. Zevran smiled, feinted once, dodged, swung – and Taliesen's head went flying, cleanly separated from his shoulders, as the swordsman sunk to his knees, blood pouring from his slashed-open belly.

The archers turned to flee, but didn't make more then two steps before Zevran and Right cut them down.

They stood a moment, both taking in great heaving gulps of air. Zevran straightened and sheathed his weapons first. "And there it is. Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows," he said wonderingly. "They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out."

Right frowned. Something about that claim didn't quite make sense... but he was too tired to figure it out now. "So what does this mean?" he asked.

"I... do not know," Zevran said hesitantly. "It seems I have options now, whereas once I had none. I suppose it would be possible for me to leave, now, if I wished. I could go far away, somewhere where the Crows would never find me."

Right tried not to show how much the talk of Zevran leaving hurt. "If you want to go, you should go," he said quietly.

"But that is what I am asking you. Do you want me to go? Do you need me here?" Zevran asked, hesitantly.

"Of _course_ I want you to stay!" Right growled out.

"Than I will stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?" Zevran said softly, sounding relieved.

Right smiled. "I would be glad to have you stay."

"Then stay I shall. I'm with you until the end... provided you do not tire of me first. Or I die. Or you die. But there you go. Let us return to the task at hand, then. There is still much to be done, yes?"

"Yes," Right agreed, and swore as he took in their blood-spattered appearance. "We need to clean up first. I hope one of these Crows has a waterskin."

They quickly looted the corpses, and cleaned up the worst of their appearance; they didn't want the first guardsman they bumped into to decide they needed questioning, after all. Right briefly considered returning to Arl Eamon's estate now, and trying to get to Bann Franderel's place another night, then changed his mind; they were most of the way there now, and he'd rather get it over with.

* * *

Right crouched on top of the wall for a moment, then turned and slid down, hanging from the edge before dropping free, dropping and rolling as he hit the ground, ending in the shadows beneath a ragged canopy hanging limply nearly. Zevran followed a moment later. Right heard a faint whine from beyond the wall, then the clicking of nails moving back and forth. He shook his head, hoping the dog wouldn't do anything foolish, like barking, that might draw attention.

He heard the clicking fade away; the dog must be heading back to Arl Eamon's estate. Then, to his astonishment, he heard them return, louder and faster, heard a grunt, and saw Stench clear the wall, belly almost scraping the top, legs scrabbling for purchase, before momentum carried him over and down to land with a faint yelp in front of the pair of them.

Stench lay sprawled there a moment, then rose to his feet, gave himself a good shake, and turned a very doggy grin their direction.

"You realize we need to go _back_ out over that same wall again later, don't you?" Zevran asked the dog quietly, sounding amused,

Stench cocked his head and whined, then walked over and pushed his head against Right's leg. Right snorted, and rose to his feet. "Come on, let's get moving," he said softly, and led the way into the warren of passageways between the buildings of the estate.

For a wonder, they met no one on their way to the cellar entrance marked on the crude map Slim had provided them; not so much as a single patrolling guard or straying servant. Right made short work of the door's lock, and they slipped into the cellar, gliding quietly through an armoury and a wine cellar before reaching the room where Bann Franderel's hidden treasure room was supposed to be. While Right worked on picking the lock to it, as well, Zevran amused himself picking up bottles at random and commenting on how excellent or poor a vintage they were.

Right bit back any biting responses he might have made to that; Zevran had been oddly elated since their earlier encounter with Taliesen. He was sure the elf would calm down eventually, and in the meantime, he could certainly understand why the elf might be in a fey mood.

The lock snicked open, and they entered the next room. Right frowned. It was empty, apart from a small wheelbarrow, a few empty wine casks, and a wooden crate containing nothing more exciting then a single dusty crystal of quartz wedged in between two of the slats.

"A secret room, perhaps?" Zevran said softly, frowning.

Right shrugged, and the pair spent a few minutes roaming the room, tapping lightly on the walls and wiggling every projecting stone and the single wall-mounted torch holder. Nothing.

Stench, who had been nosing around the base of the walls, suddenly lifted his head, looking back the way they'd come and growled warningly, ears pricked.

Zevran and Right exchanged a look, then returned as silently as they could move to the wine cellar. For a moment nothing seemed changed.

"The door," Zevran suddenly breathed. Right looked, and saw that the door into the room was shut; yet he was certain they'd left it open behind them. The two slowly began to ease toward it, trying to keep watch in all directions at once.

They were almost to it when a group of guardsmen moved out from between the racks at the far end of the room, grinning triumphantly. As Zevran and Right rushed toward them, they raised a cry, and the closed door slammed open, admitting even more of them.

It was like the fight with the Crows all over again, thought thankfully with substantially less well-skilled opponents. Right could hear Zevran suddenly cursing somewhere behind him as he took out a group of archers. "You all right?" he called, worriedly, not daring to look around.

"Apart from an arrow though my leg, I am just fine," Zevran responded, sounding pained.

Right spat a curse of his own, finished off the archers, and hurried back to Zevran's side. The elf was being hard-pressed by two guards, hoping to take advantage of his wound to bring him down. Right finished off one before the man even noticed his approach, then together he and Zevran cut down the last.

Right crouched down to check on Zevran's leg. The arrow had sunk into the meaty part of his left thigh.

"You'll have to push it through, and cut off the head," Zevran grated out. "Give me something to bite on first."

Right quickly did as told, hissing in sympathetic pain as he pushed it through.

"And I had _liked_ these leathers," Zevran muttered in an aggrieved voice after spitting out the folded glove he'd been biting down on, looking at the cut and bloodied state of his leggings.

Right quickly bandaged his wound. "Let's get out of here," he said softly. "This is obviously as trap."

Zevran nodded, and rose shakily to his feet. He couldn't put full weight on his leg, and Right had to walk at his side so he had something to lean on to keep his balance. They hurried through the armoury, and back out to the passageways.

As they reached ground level, they were attacked again; more soldiers, and a pair of mages, one down the passageway to either side. Right swore and darted to one side, to take out one mage, abandoning Zevran to take on the guardsmen. He dispatched the mage as quickly as he could, and spun back, feeling a surge of relief as he saw that Stench, once again proving just how intelligent mabari hounds were, had the other mage down on the ground and was busy tearing out his throat. Zevran was managing to hold his own versus the guards, and Right quickly joined him. By the time Stench rejoined them as well, they were down to the last man, and shortly after he, too, was down and dead.

"Remind me to have words with Slim next time we encounter him," Zevran said breathlessly, " _Strong_ words."

They reached the cul-de-sac where they'd come over the wall. Right eyed its height and knew there was no way he was going to be able to get Zevran back over it. He looked around, and spotted a grate in the ground. "This way," he said, striding over and prying it open.

Zevran groaned. "The sewers? Make that _very_ strong words." he muttered.

* * *

It took them several hours to get back to Arl Eamon's estate. They'd cleaned up as best they could after emerging from the foul depths of the labyrinthine sewage tunnels, paying special attention to cleaning Zevran's wounded leg, but the elf was already feverish by the time they got back, the wound looking red and swollen.

Right hurried him through the hallways to their room, thankfully meeting no one on the way, stripped off their sodding, stinking clothes, and pulled on a clean, dry tunic before hurrying off in search of Wynne.

She wasn't pleased to be woken in the middle of the night, and was even less happy when she saw the condition of Zevran's leg. She ordered Right off to fetch warm water, soap and towels while she set to work with poultices and healing magics.

It was well after midnight before she finally left, Zevran's leg mainly healed, and only a lingering fever that she said should clear up by morning left as an aftereffect of their dangerous outing. She left the pair of them with crisp orders that they were both to _rest quietly_ for the remainder of the night.

As soon as she'd left, Zevran tried to get back out of bed. Right made him lie back down again, but as soon as he released him, he was trying to sit up and get out again. "What's wrong?" Right asked him.

"I need my backpack," the elf mumbled.

"I'll get it. You _stay_ ," he said, and hurried across the room to separate it out of the mixed pile of their belongings, carrying it over and putting it down beside Zevran.

Zevran sat up, and started sorting through the contents of the pockets, obviously looking for something. After a while he found a crumpled blue silk tunic, made a pleased sound, and unrolled it, revealing a handful of assorted jewellery all tangled together in the middle. He delicately picked loose a single item, then turned and smiled warmly at Right, holding it out toward him. An earring, a small hoop of some silver-coloured metal, in an organic flowing shape inlaid with chips of jet or obsidian, from which hung a single tear-shaped drop of polished amethyst.

"Here... it seems an appropriate moment to give you this."

"You don't need to give me anything, Zev," Right said, surprised.

"I may not _need_ to, but I _want_ to," he said, and smiled. "I acquired it on my very first job for the Crows. A Rivaini merchant prince, and he was wearing a single, jewelled earring when I killed him. In fact, that's about all he was wearing. I thought it was beautiful and took it to mark the occasion. I've kept it since... and I'd like you to have it."

Right wasn't quite sure what to say. "It's a fine gift, Zevran. Thank you."

Zevran smiled charmingly. "Don't get the wrong idea about it. You killed Taliesen. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I'm free, at least for now. Feel free to sell it, or wear it... or whatever you'd like. It's really the least I could give you in return."

"It's a reward for helping you?" Right asked, surprised.

"I... look, just... just take it," Zevran said insistently, holding it out again. "It's meant a lot to me, but so have... so has what you've done. Please, take it."

Right bit his lip. For a moment there, he'd half hoped... he wasn't sure just what, but this wasn't it. "No. I don't want it," he said as gently as he could.

Zevran glowered at him. "You are a very frustrating man to deal with, do you know that?" he snapped. "We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this. You don't want the earring? You don't get the earring. Very simple."

He shoved it back into the pocket of his backpack and knocked the bag off the bed to the floor, then turned over and curled up on his side, back to Right, obviously ignoring him.


	57. Traitors and Traps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran was still angry the next morning; his only response to Right asking after his health was a glare and a grunt before pulling the covers up over his head. Right sighed, dressed, and went in search of breakfast. He stopped one of the servants and asked them to see to it that a tray was brought in to the elf; his leg might be mostly healed, but judging by what Wynne had said, it would be better if he kept his weight off it for a day or two.

Zevran was still angry the next morning; his only response to Right asking after his health was a glare and a grunt before pulling the covers up over his head. Right sighed, dressed, and went in search of breakfast. He stopped one of the servants and asked them to see to it that a tray was brought in to the elf; his leg might be mostly healed, but judging by what Wynne had said, it would be better if he kept his weight off it for a day or two.

After eating he went in search of Alistair and Arl Eamon, and found them together in the sitting room off of Alistair's bedroom, a well-dressed elven woman speaking pleadingly to the Arl.

Eamon looked up as Right entered the room. "Ah, Warden. I trust you've made yourself comfortable?" he asked.

"Yes. Very nice," Right responded, looking curiously at the elf.

"Good. Because it's likely to be your last rest for a while," the Arl said, frowning, then gestured at the elven woman. "This is Erlina. She's..."

"I am Queen Anora's handmaiden. She sent me here to ask for your help," the woman interrupted him.

"Or perhaps the young lady prefers to speak for herself," Arl Eamon said dryly, giving the woman a disapproving look.

Right frowned. "Why would Anora ask us for help?"

"The queen, she is in a difficult position. She loved her husband, no?" she said, a heavy Orlesian accent obvious in her speech. "And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumours, what is she to think? She worries, no? But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her 'not to trouble herself.'"

"I'm still not seeing where our 'help' comes in." Right said dryly.

"So she goes to Howe," Erlina continued. "A visit from the queen to the new arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers. He calls her every sort of name, 'traitor' being the kindest, and locks her in a guest room."

"What does this have to do with me?" Right asked, crossing his arms.

"I think... her life is in danger. I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon," she said, looking at the Arl.

Eamon frowned. "We may have no choice but to trust Anora. The queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeded in pinning her death on me... I'm not sure that's a risk we can afford to take."

"So, what do you propose we do?" Right asked.

"I have some uniforms. Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir," Erlina explained hurriedly. "I will show you to the servants' entrance. We must slip in and out with my queen before anyone is the wiser. I will go ahead to Howe's estate. Meet me there as soon as you can."

She seemed to take their acceptance of her foolhardy plan for granted, and hurried off. Right frowned as he watched her leave. Everything about this screamed "it's a trap!" to him; granted that many humans, especially noble humans, seemed to regard elves as little more than mobile furniture, still Erlina being free to come and go from Arl Howe's estate seemed... unlikely. Her plan for sneaking them in was equally ludicrous; he rather doubted that Arl Howe numbered _dwarves_ among his guardsmen; Right would stick out like a sore thumb, correct uniform or no. Same for Sten and Shale, and Wynne was both too old and too female to be believable in the role either. Which left... Alistair. Maybe Zevran. And himself. It was a plan tailor-made for capturing the Grey Wardens, as far as he could see.

"I'm glad you decided to help. With Anora's knowledge, we have a far better chance against Loghain," Arl Eamon said.

Right shot him a look. "Do you truly think Loghain's daughter would turn on him?" he asked.

Eamon shrugged. "From Erlina's story, he turned against her first. If he truly intends to sacrifice her, I think it would be strong motivation to break the parental bonds. In any event, I would far rather have the opportunity to ask such things of her than simply hear about her murder. If Anora speaks out against Loghain, hers would indeed be one of the most powerful voices at the Landsmeet."

"I don't trust this Erlina. She knows too much," Right pointed out.

"She's obviously more than a maidservant. But I imagine it's useful for Anora to have a trusted attendant who can move more freely than she herself. And consider what aid she and the queen might be to us. If Anora has truly turned against her father, she becomes the one thing we lack. Someone with a true understanding of Loghain's plans and allies. With her guidance, we can form a far more successful strategy against him."

Right nodded, his mind racing down paths of its own. He had a nasty suspicion that if Arl Howe really meant Anora harm, his breaking into the estate to try freeing her would be the perfect chance to frame _him_ for her murder. If Howe didn't mean harm to her, but was instead colluding with her, it was the perfect chance to capture one, perhaps both of the Grey Wardens. And even if they _did_ rescue Anora – were they really rescuing her, or just inviting a traitor into their own counsels?

He wondered if Eamon had made the same calculations. "I'll have to take care of a couple of things before I go," Right said abruptly.

"Of course," the Arl said.

* * *

He left the estate quietly a few minutes later, Stench trotting along at his heels. He'd decided he was going to go by himself; with luck, he could avoid the trap, and at worst, only he would be caught. Too bad Zevran was still recovering from his injury; if he'd have chosen to bring anyone, it would have been the elf. He smiled slightly, remembering their effortless teamwork of the night before, then frowned as he remembered that Zevran was currently upset with him.

It bothered him, now, that he'd left without even telling him he was going; that he was walking into a likely trap when the last words they'd spoken to each other were hurtful ones. But... he just hadn't been able to take the earring, not when it seemed to be being offered as a reward for killing Taliesen, as some form of _payment_. He hadn't killed Taliesen because he wanted _money_ , he'd killed him because...

"Thought you'd slip away without me?" a voice asked from right behind him.

Right jumped, spun. "Alistair! What are _you_ doing here?" he asked, annoyed.

"I thought your 'couple of things before I go' sounded a little... off, so I made my own excuses and followed you," Alistair said calmly, and frowned. "I'm not letting you walk into a trap alone."

"Alistair... go back," Right told him.

"No."

"No?" Right said, raising his eyebrows.

"N. O. No. Nice short simple word, and apparently one I should have learned ages and ages ago," Alistair said, smiling pleasantly down him. "Look... this is my choice. My decision, for once. I'm going with you. We're Grey Wardens – as good as brothers, even if we did start out as the sort of brothers who are fighting every time their parent's back is turned. I'm going with you, because that's where I belong – at your side, helping, not just standing around letting others make all the decisions and doing what I'm told. Right? Right."

Right snorted, then smiled. "About time you grew up," he said.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, I hope you know where we're heading, because I haven't the foggiest clue."

Right laughed. "This way," he said, and resumed walking, Alistair falling into step beside him.

It was nice not to be going into this alone.

* * *

He didn't miss the way Erlina frowned when she saw there was just the two of them and the dog. "You should have brought more help, there are many guards inside," she said worriedly.

Right shrugged, pretending innocence. "Well, we'll be safe once we're disguised as guardsman anyway, won't we?" he asked. "They won't give us a second thought."

"Yes, of course... please, this way, we'll have to sneak in the back entrance," she said. "Thankfully most of the guards are distracted by this nonsense," she added, waving towards an angry mob of tradespeople gathered around the entrance to the estate, apparently protesting because they hadn't been paid for work they'd been doing on refurbishing the estate. A suspiciously well-timed protest, Right thought.

Erlina led them around the side of the building. They encountered a small patrol of soldiers, whom they easily dispatched, hiding the bodies in the shrubberies before continuing onwards. Once they reached the back, Right, Alistair and Stench hid among some trees, while Erlina lured the guards away from the back door so they could sneak in.

She caught up with them a few minutes later. "Ah! It took me forever to be rid of those two!" she complained, making a face, then looked them over. "You should put on your disguises now. The servants, they will not look closely at anyone in uniform. All guards are alike to a cook, no? But you should not draw attention to yourself."

"No," Right said calmly. "No disguises. We're doing this my way."

Erlina frowned. "The servants here, they have no love for Howe, but they will be frightened by strangers bursting in. They are little threat to you, no? But they will call for the guards when they see you, and soon the whole house will know you are here."

She looked at Alistair, as if hoping he'd contradict the dwarf. Alistair merely smiled. "No disguises sounds fine with me," he agreed.

Right grinned. "Ready?" he asked, unsheathing his weapons.

"Ready," Alistair said, nodding agreement and drawing his own sword.

Erlina paled and backed away.

* * *

There were a _lot_ of guards in the estate.

Their unheralded entrance to the kitchen had quickly been noticed, the servants screaming and fleeing in a panic. They made their first stand in the doorway between kitchen and dining hall, forcing the guards to only approach them from one side. Fighting with Alistair was almost as good as fighting with Zevran had night before had been, Right noticed; he had to pay a little more attention to what Alistair was doing, there wasn't quite the same level of almost unconscious teamwork, but by the Ancestors they made a fearsome team! Alistair stayed a little to the front and left of the doorway, providing a nearly immovable shield on that side, while Right attacked anyone approaching from Alistair's right, occasionally working in a stab or slash at legs visible beyond the lower edge of Alistair's shield. Stench was in his element, darting in and out and contributing to the mayhem in his usual style.

They moved on after that, surprising more guards at word or at rest, grimly slaughtering their way through them. It was nasty, brutal work. Erlina followed behind them, pale and shaking, looking alternatively appalled and impressed by the carnage they left in their wake.

Finally they reached the room where Anora was being held. A glowing shield of energy pulsed in front of it, filling the door frame. "The Grey Warden is here, my lady," Erlina called out nervously.

"Thank the Maker! I would greet you properly, but I'm afraid we've had... a setback," Anora called back through the door. "My 'host' was not content with leaving me under heavy guard. He's sealed the door by magic. Find the mage who cast the spell. He'll most likely be at Howe's side. Kill or disable the mage, and the spell will be released."

Right frowned.

"I don't like this," Alistair said, quietly.

"Please, Warden, I beg you: Do not leave my queen here," Erlina pleaded with them.

"Free me, and I promise you my aid in the Landsmeet," Anora called out.

Right snorted. "Fine. I'll be back soon," he said.

"Thank you, Warden. My prayers go with you," Anora said.

* * *

They searched the rest of the ground floor, finding no sign of the Arl. They did, however, find his bedroom – and a door off of it, leading down to the dungeons.

"What kind of person has a door to the dungeons off their bedroom?" Alistair said softly as they descended the stairs downward. "Creepy..."

"The sick bastard kind," Right growled. "Don't forget though, Howe's only recently taken over the estate – this would have been here since the previous family's occupation."

"The Arls of Denerim," Alistair said. "The father, Arl Urien, died at Ostagar – the son Bann Vaughan should have inherited, but he's disappeared – Howe claims he must have been a victim of the elven uprising. Part of the recent history Arl Eamon has been labouring to stuff into my head," he added when Right gave him a questioning look.

"Well, one of the two must have been a nasty piece of work," Right said. "Or possibly it was just one of their ancestors, though you'd think the door would have been bricked up at some point if that was the case."

Alistair nodded, the two falling silent as they approached the door at the bottom of the stairs.

They emerged to find a startled guard looking at them from in front of the door of a nearby cell. He started to cry out, then an arm snaked out through the bars, catching him by the throat in a choke hold while a hand reached out lower down and snatched the key ring from his belt, fumbling to unlock the door even as the guard died. The cell door swung open, the body falling backwards into the cell, and a moment later a long-haired, gaunt figure emerged.

"I thank you for creating such distraction, stranger. I have been waiting weeks for this opportunity. Do you think you could..." he abruptly broke off, frowned. "Alistair? Is that you?"

"Who...? Wait. I do know you. You were at my Joining. He's one of us. A Warden from Orlais. Jader, I think. Or was it Montsimmard? I'm afraid I don't remember your name."

The man smiled warmly, gave them a slight bow. "I'm Riordan, senior Warden of Jader, but born and bred in Highever and glad to be home."

It developed that the man had been one of the Wardens turned back at the border after Ostagar, when Loghain had refused entrance to the Wardens of Orlais and their chevalier escorts. Riordan had been sent in alone to find out what had happened at Ostagar; Howe had later captured him, and he'd been held in the dungeons here ever since. He was too weakened by his weeks of captivity to accompany them further into the dungeons after Howe, so they gave him a description of how to get to Arl Eamon's estate, then parted ways.

Working their way through the dungeons was much like working their way through the upstairs floor had been; repetitive slaughter, as they encountered and cut down clusters of guards. Howe seemed to be using the dungeons as much as housing for his guardsmen as a place to store prisoners. Though they also found ample evidence that he did more then just imprison people; in one large room they surprised a group of men working over a prisoner on a rack. Right was abruptly glad that Zevran hadn't been well enough to ask along on this trip; he remembered the elf's dream-prison in the fade, and felt ill at the thought that something like this had once been done to him. Not even to extract information from him, but purely as a test of his capacity for pain – or even a means of increasing it.

The young man, when freed, turned out to the son of a local noble, imprisoned by Howe after he'd questioned the disappearance of his milk-brother, a veteran of Ostagar. He was in terrible condition, but insisted he could leave the place under his own power, since they'd killed everyone between him and freedom. They watched him stagger off down the hallway, having to support himself along the wall, and grimly resumed their search for Rendon Howe.

Nor was that the only prisoner they found in the cells; there was a veteran of Ostagar, his mind turned by months of torture; an elf, prisoned here since long before Howe had taken over, from whom they learned some of the true story of the so-called 'elven rebellion' – not a real rebellion at all, but an outbreak of angry violence after Bann Vaughan had interrupted a wedding party, dragging off the brides and their female attendants to rape at his leisure here at his estate.

And then they finally found Arl Howe.

He had not one mage at his side, but two, as well as several guardsmen. He seemed unsurprised by their appearance here under his estate. "Well, well. The Grey Warden. I must say I'm surprised Eamon would condone you invading my castle and murdering my men. Is he losing faith in the persuasive powers of his Landsmeet?" he sneered.

"I'm here for Anora," Right said sharply.

Howe laughed. "The traitorous bitch has you under her thumb? Anora does love games. I'm surprised she'd play with the likes of _you_ ," he said, then his expression hardened. "You should have left when you had the chance, Warden. Slunk off to the Anderfels to hide with the rest of your kind. This Landsmeet is a farce. Loghain will triumph and _you_ will _die_."

He attacked. While Alistair kept him and the guards occupied, Right and Stench went for the mages. Neither got off more then a couple spells before going down, one with his throat cut, the other with it torn out.

In the end it came down to Howe and the two Grey Wardens, the older man swearing and turning red with effort as he struggled to hold them off, alone in his dungeon with no one to save him from them or their anger.

As he fell to the floor, blood streaming over his hands as he clutched at his final wounds, he glared angrily at them, as if even now unable to believe in his own death. "Maker spit on you... I deserved... more..." he rasped, and slumped over backwards, dead.

* * *

In cells beyond the room where they'd killed him, they found more prisoners; men the Arl apparently hadn't wanted anyone to know he held. One was a templar, younger brother of Bann Aelfstanna, confused and trembling in lyrium withdrawal. By his babblings, he seemed to have been one of the templars who had captured the blood mage Jowan, before they'd all been captured in turn by Arl Howe's men. He was the only survivor of his group, the others having died to lyrium withdrawal or torture long since. He was too frightened to leave his cell, but begged them to let his sister know where he was.

The other prisoner was none other then Bann Vaughan himself.

Even if they hadn't already heard from the elf, Soris, about his background, he wouldn't have made a good impression on them; he started off by demanding they free him, or he'd have them flayed. A weak threat coming from someone who was himself imprisoned. He tried to bribe his way to freedom after that.

"I don't think Denerim needs someone like you," Right said, flatly, and reached through the bars to cut his throat.

He looked at Alistair afterwards, worried for a moment what his reaction would be. Alistair's lips were pressed together in a thin line, staring down at the body. "I think I suddenly understand what Zevran said once – that some people simply need assassinating," he said softly, then resolutely turned his back on the cell. "I think we're done here."

"Yeah," Right agreed. "Let's go rescue the queen."

* * *

Anora emerged from her room, dressed like a guardsman.

"Why are you dressed that like?" Right asked, puzzled.

"Because there are two sorts of people in this house: those loyal to Howe, and those loyal to me. If Howe's people find me, I'll be killed. And my people will insist on escorting me back to the palace... where my father may _also_ have me killed."

Right snorted. "The only people we found in this house were all Arl Howe's men – and they're all _dead_."

She blinked, looking startled. "Oh. Well, let us go."

Right nodded, and turned to lead the way out.

They emerged from the hallway to the large front hall to find it packed with guards, augmented by several mages, Loghain's aide Ser Cauthrien leading them. "Warden! In the name of the regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms. Surrender, and you may be shown mercy."

Right just stood and looked at her for a long moment. Not only was this a trap for himself and Alistair, he realized – but for Rendon Howe as well. He had little doubt that if he and Alistair hadn't already killed the man, that Arl Howe wouldn't have survived for any longer then it took for Cauthrien to locate him and remedy their oversight. Not when she was already claiming him dead while the man's body was still warm.

He briefly considered attempting to fight his way out, but with just the two of them – three, if you counted Stench, all of them already tired from the lengthy fighting that they'd already done, against so many fresh troops... no, it might still be a slaughter, but in the end it would be of _them_.

"I will stand down," he said quietly, dropping his weapons to the ground. Alistair silently followed suit.

"I'm surprised this ended peacefully," Cauthrien said, and actually sounded as if she was. She continued grimly. "Bring the Wardens. Loghain doesn't care about the rest."

As the guardsmen stepped forward to lay hands on Right and Alistair, he noticed that only Erlina and Stench were still there; Anora had slipped away at some point. He wondered if she'd go home to the palace, or to Arl Eamon's estate. The Arl, he suspected. She'd want to entrap him as well, if she could.


	58. A Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Apparently, some times the game gods just love me. For this coming chapter I was thinking it was really too bad that Zevran couldn't do the rescue from Fort Drakon sequence by himself. I selected Sten to be his partner, the fort loaded... and only Zevran actually appeared. _SQUUUEEE~!_**

**Apparently, some times the game gods just love me. For this coming chapter I was thinking it was really too bad that Zevran couldn't do the rescue from Fort Drakon sequence by himself. I selected Sten to be his partner, the fort loaded... and only Zevran actually appeared. _SQUUUEEE~!_**

 **I suspect the bug was caused by the Extra Dog Slot mod, since that sometimes confuses the game engine over just who is or isn't in the party. But I totally loved having my play through match the story in my head... and yes, there are a couple of screenshots up in my albums of the lone Zev doing his thing (see links in profile).**

* * *

Zevran turned over in bed, feeling restless. He had expected Right to come back after breakfast. Had already planned what words he would say, to break the silence between them. He was good with words, at least when they weren't important, when they didn't mean anything. Not so good when it came to expressing... feelings.

Muttering curses, he got out of bed, ignoring the pain in his leg. He had to do digging in his packs to find clean clothing; his leathers were missing, presumably off somewhere being cleaned by the ever-efficient staff of Arl Eamon's estate. Assuming they hadn't thrown them out or burned them, which they better not have, or he'd have to have strong words with someone about that. Especially his boots. He'd kill if anything happened to his boots; they'd been a gift from Right, after all.

The thought made him scowl, remembering Right's refusal of the his own gift for the dwarf, and put him into what was possibly an even worse mood then he'd woken up in this morning. Muttering a few choice words he headed out of Right's room and down the hallway to the dining room in search of food and conversation.

Unfortunately the only person there was Oghren, slumped over in a chair, snoring, a half-eaten plate of food in front of him, an empty tankard lying on its side nearby. Zevran went in search of the kitchen, where he successfully charmed the cook into providing him with lunch. He had started back to the bedroom, wondering where Right was, when he bumped into Wynne. She scolded him for being up and about already, and ordered him back to bed. Zevran smiled cheerfully at her. "But my bed is so tiresome and boring... I feel so alone, it makes me want to cry. Perhaps if you came with me, and let me rest my head on your magnificent bosom..."

Wynne gave him a scathing look and stalked off in the direction of the dining room. Zevran grinned, and continued on his way towards the bedroom, grin widening as he heard her querulous voice ringing out again as she discovered Oghren.

He was most of the way up the slanted hallway leading to where the bedrooms were when two women rushed past him, one statuesque blond dressed in steel mail like a guard, a helmet tucked neatly under her arm, the other an elf in a rather fetching red dress. He heard a woof, and looked down to see Stench coming to a stop at his side. "And where have you been?" he asked the dog severely.

Stench whined, lowering his ears, then turned and scurried after the two women. Zevran frowned, and followed after him in turn, stopping outside Alistair's sitting room as he heard voices within.

"Eamon! We have a problem." A female voice – the woman in armour, at a guess.

"Calm down, Anora. What has happened?" Eamon asked.

"The Wardens have been captured!" Anora exclaimed.

Zevran straightened abruptly, concern for Right overriding all other thoughts or emotions, the pain in his leg forgotten.

"What? How could this happen?" Eamon exclaimed.

"Never mind that. The question is how to free him," Anora said impatiently.

Zevran frowned. He, too, wished to know how this could have happened – how, and where, and above all, _why_.

"Surely you mean _them_ , your Highness? We need Alistair, too" Eamon pointed out dryly.

"Yes. Of course I meant Alistair, too," Anora said hurriedly. "Cauthrien will have taken them to Fort Drakon. Getting them freed will be no small feat..."

"Yes, especially as I hardly have the sort of forces necessary to just go and forcibly remove them from there," Eamon said, sounding mildly peeved. "But you must be exhausted after your ordeal. Let me show you to a room; there should be something of Isolde's about that will fit you. We can discuss ideas for obtaining the Wardens' freedom later, over dinner perhaps?"

"Of course," Anora said pleasantly.

Zevran stepped into a shadowed corner, watching through narrowed eyes as Eamon swept out of the room, the tall blond on his arm, both exchanging inane pleasantries as he led her to the bedroom next to Right's, the elf – clearly her servant – following quietly behind. Zevran waited patiently, until the Arl had returned to his own rooms and the elf had been sent off on an errand by her mistress, then slipped silently into the room.

The woman – Anora, he reminded himself, surely the Queen Anora he'd heard mention of previously – was just doing up the last few buttons on the back of her dress. "A pity I didn't walk in a few minutes earlier," he said.

She gasped and spun, eyes wide and shocked. "What are you doing in my room?" she asked. "Leave at once, or I shall scream."

Zevran grinned at her. "I am a close friend of the Warden's, my dear, and I very much want to hear what he is doing in Fort Drakon – and how he came to be there." He leaned against a dresser, producing a dagger and began flipping it leisurely in the air. "I would recommend you be as... _thorough_ as you can be in your explanation."

She drew herself up, giving him a frosty glare. "Are you threatening me?" she demanded. "Do you even know who I am? I am Anora, the Queen of Ferelden..."

Zevran smiled pleasantly at her. "And I am Zevran, an Antivan Crow. If you know anything about us, you know that _royalty_ is my natural prey," he said. "Now... tell me how Right came to be captured," he snapped. "Before I lose my temper."

* * *

Zevran stalked silently through Denerim, heading toward Fort Drakon, its towering spire clearly visible from anywhere in the city. He was in a black mood; Anora's answers to his questions had been most unsatisfactory. Clearly there was more to the story of how Right and Alistair had come to be captured then she was telling him. But he hadn't wanted to take the time to pry further information out of her; later, perhaps.

He'd had to waste precious time tracking down his leathers after he'd done speaking with her, then escaped out a window half-dressed when he heard guards searching the halls for him; she must have complained to the Arl of his behaviour. A fierce grin crossed his face for a moment; she could complain all she liked. He had slipped away unnoticed, and would not be returning to the estate unless it was with Right.

As the Fort drew closer, he frowned. A plan. He didn't actually have one. He'd never been good at planning; that had always been Taliesen's contribution to their partnership. Taliesen did the planning; he did the killing. He was _good_ at the killing. But in this case he doubted that simple killing would not suffice; even with help, a frontal assault on the Fort would be... difficult. Suicidal. And he'd lost his desire for death months ago, after he'd unexpectedly survived his purposefully poor attempt on the lives of the two Grey Wardens.

He'd have to resort to trickery, he supposed. He was often good at that, especially when said trickery had an enjoyable goal in mind, such as gaining access to the private chambers of a particularly ravishing beauty... he grinned, amused at the direction of his thoughts. As much as he had come to appreciate Right's broad back and strong hands, he would not exactly refer to the warden as a _ravishing beauty_. He had character, yes, and a certain degree of rugged handsomeness, but a beauty he was not. Homely, if anything, though in the right lights his strong features and intricate tattoo were certainly... striking, especially when he was smiling or laughing. Ravishing, now... he certainly enjoyed that part of their relationship, too.

"State your business," A voice demanded.

Zevran looked up to realize he'd reached the front entry of the fort while lost in thought, and the two guards standing there were eyeing him warily. He gave them his most subservient look. "I have a delivery for the commander of the fort."

"What is it? I wasn't notified about anything coming today," the guard said suspiciously.

"Well, the items are of a... personal nature. No doubt he didn't want anyone to know," Zevran improvised.

The two guards exchanged a worried look. The second one sighed, and gestured toward a small room off to one side. "Fine. Wait over there. I'll get the captain," he said.

Zevran waited patiently. After a while, a heavily armoured man came in, looking annoyed. "All right, what's this about?" he snapped.

"A delivery. For which I have still not been paid, by the way," Zevran answered.

"No one told _me_ about any deliveries today," the captain said, his eyes narrowing.

"I cannot imagine why not. Surely your commanding officer informs you whenever he is having items of a... personal nature delivered to him." Zevran said smoothly.

"What is... no, I don't want to know. Go on in," the captain said brusquely, and hurried away.

Zevran strolled after him, nodding affably to the door guards before continuing deeper into the fort. He soon reached a large room, with several ballistea mounted on raised platforms, and a number of soldiers standing around in groups, talking. Zevran crossed the room with a confident "I belong here, and I know where I'm going" stride; skulking, he knew, would be the surest way to draw attention to himself. He slowed as he approached the door at the far side of the room, a door guarded by a female sergeant who was frowning as she looked him over. He doubted his confident stride would be enough to get by her.

Charming females, however, was something he had much experience at. A few minutes of talk, some delicate flattery, and the woman hurried off, muttering about resigning to really enjoy life, leaving the door unguarded. Zevran grinned and picked the lock, moving deeper into the fort.

Neither confidence nor charm would work beyond that point; he was too obviously out of place now. The very next time he encountered guards, he had to bring his skills at killing into play. He felt surprisingly _lonely_ as he fought, reminded forcibly of how effortlessly he and Right had worked together the night before. A pity he didn't at least have the dog along with him, but his precipitous exit via a window had made it impossible for him to recruit any of their companions to assist him.

He worked his way through the fort, dealing death to anyone unfortunate enough to encounter him in the halls, quickly working his way down to the dungeons.

He entered a large room that stank of blood and death. A gallery ran around two sides of it, overlooking a torture chamber, lined with cells. A pair of guards charged toward him, and even as he fought and dispatched the pair, he caught sight of a familiar diminutive form in one cell, a second taller person in the same cell. Right, and Alistair.

He quickly riffled the bodies, finding a key ring, and strolled over, twirling it on one finger. "Did you miss me?" he asked with an engaging smile.

"Open the sodding door," Right growled, hands tightening on the bars.

"Say please."

" _Please_ open the sodding door!"

Zevran grinned, and swiftly unlocked the door. Right stormed out, grabbed his shoulders, and hauled him down for a fierce kiss.

"I'll, err... just go find our armour," Alistair said, then turned away, moving off and beginning to poke around in a nearby chest.

* * *

The three of them had to fight their way out of the fort, but thankfully no one had yet discovered the bodies Zevran had left in his wake and raised the alarm; the few soldiers they did encounter suffered from terminal surprise at their appearance. After that it was just the comparatively simple matter of crossing the city to return to Arl Eamon's estate, during which trip Zevran filled the two Grey Wardens in on Anora's arrival, and his subsequent abrupt exit from the house.

"Don't worry, I'll have a word with Eamon when we get back," Alistair said. "I think your having successfully rescued the both of us from the Fort Drakon dungeons should more then offset you having been a little rude to the Queen."

Arl Eamon was suitably astonished to see the pair striding into his dining room, and while Anora glared at Zevran, the Arl was quite pleased to hear of his exploits, and informed his guards to stand down; the elf was not a danger to anyone.

Zevran forbear to disagree with him.

* * *

After Eamon and Anora had retired for the night, the gathering of Right and his companions in the dining room had become quite pleasant, everyone wanting to hear about the adventures he and Zevran had been on the night before, the assault on the Arl of Denerim's estate earlier that day, and their dramatic rescue from the fort.

It was late when the party broke up. After a late night the night before, and his tiring adventures today, Right was just about staggering with exhaustion by the time he and Zevran reached his room. He pulled off his leathers and crawled into bed, then frowned when he noticed that Zevran was standing motionless by the door, still fully dressed.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" he asked, peering muzzily at the elf.

"No, I... no. I mean no offence, I simply... no."

Right sat up again. "Is something wrong?" he demanded.

"I... do not wish to talk about it," Zevran said softly.

Right just sat there for a moment, staring at him. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Enough! I said... I am not interested. Can you not understand that?" Zevran snarled and turned away, started to leave. Suddenly stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. "There are other things for you to focus on besides me, I am certain. Do... do those."

He vanished. Right sat there, staring after him, feeling confused and troubled and bereft. When Zevran had shown up to rescue them today, he'd assumed that Zevran's anger of the night before had passed; but if it had, something else had replaced it. He considered getting up and chasing after the elf, _demanding_ answers... but stayed where he was, knowing he was too tired right now to keep a grip on his own temper, and would likely only make things worse between them.

Even so, it was a very long time before he finally slept.


	59. Plots and Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right woke the next morning to find Anora's maid, Erlina, waiting patiently outside his door. Anora, it seemed, wished to speak with him, and would be obliged if he would attend her after he'd broken his fast. Message delivered, Erlina hurried off. Disgruntled – he'd meant to track down and talk to Zevran after breakfast, if he wasn't lucky enough to catch him at it – Right stumped off to the dining room. Zevran was not there, which had him feeling even grumpier by the time he'd finished eating and went to see what Anora wanted to try to talk him into this time.

Right woke the next morning to find Anora's maid, Erlina, waiting patiently outside his door. Anora, it seemed, wished to speak with him, and would be obliged if he would attend her after he'd broken his fast. Message delivered, Erlina hurried off. Disgruntled – he'd meant to track down and talk to Zevran after breakfast, if he wasn't lucky enough to catch him at it – Right stumped off to the dining room. Zevran was not there, which had him feeling even grumpier by the time he'd finished eating and went to see what Anora wanted to try to talk him into this time.

"Hello again, Warden. It is good that you came to speak with me," she said, smiling warmly at him after Erlina had let him into her room. "I will be blunt. I can see that your voice will be a strong one in days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens, and with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne."

Right considered her words for a moment, and decided to skip over the issue of 'her' throne for now. Alistair had several times indicated that he had no wish to be king, though Eamon was still adamantly insisting that he was the only possible candidate. he still wasn't entirely sure of his own opinions on the matter. "Are you proposing an alliance?"

"That is _exactly_ what I am proposing," Anora said agreeably. "When the time comes, you support my bid in the Landsmeet to remain on the throne. You will be seen as my father's enemy, yet you will be in support of his daughter. You will be seen as supporting the interests of Ferelden as opposed to solely those of the Grey Wardens. In return, I add my voice to yours. Do you see? Together we can do what alone we cannot."

"Why should I support you?" Right asked. "Arl Eamon seems to feel that Alistair would be a good man to make king."

"For years I have ruled this kingdom as Cailan's queen. As much as they loved Cailan, all of the Bannorn knew this to be so," Anora said. "Cailan was a 'good man'. But what is needed now is not another good man but a good _ruler_. Do you disagree? You are a fellow Grey Warden. What do you think of Alistair's potential to rule, never mind his willingness?"

"We all do things we have to, sometimes," Right said evasively, not wanting to answer her question. She hadn't _earned_ the right to hear his opinion of his brother Grey Warden. He would give nothing away to her in conversation that he didn't have to.

She seemed to take evasion as answer, anyway – probably hearing what she _wanted_ to hear. "Indeed. I am also doing what I must, for the good of my country. Alistair seems like a kind, well-meaning man, and biddable enough. These are... _admirable_ qualities, if not kingly ones. He also seems to be a fine Grey Warden – which is _exactly_ why he should remain one, and serve the kingdom by defeating the darkspawn."

Right held his tongue. He could think of worse things for Ferelden than a kind king who was a fine warrior. A woman ruled by her ambition being one obvious possibility. Just how far was Anora willing to go, he wondered, how ruthless might she be, in pursuit of keeping her own posterior firmly planted on the throne? He'd already seen the damage one ruthless, ambitious man could do, and he'd not killed Arl Howe just to turn around and help somehow who might well be his female equivalent. No, until she proved herself to him, she'd get no words of support.

"I will need to think on your words," he told her, then had a thought. "Why not simply marry Alistair? The best of both worlds."

"Ignoring that the man looks so much like Cailan – my recently-dead husband, if you'll recall," she said dryly, "my main fear is that he might govern like Cailan as well. But it is true that Alistair has Theirin blood. To some, this is more important even than practical considerations. A union might be considered a compromise, but... is this something Alistair even desires?"

Right said nothing, just crossed his arms and waited.

"Let me say this: if Alistair is willing to stand back and allow me to continue governing the nation, then I would be willing to have him as my king," she said slowly. "It is my understanding that governing does not appeal to him anyhow. If that is so, this is a compromise I can live with."

"I don't know what his opinion of it would be," he said. "I'll speak to him."

"Do so. I will be... _interested_ to hear what he has to say," she said.

Right bowed and walked out, hiding his distaste for her. Complaining at one moment that she feared Alistair would govern like his brother – leaving all the real work of it up to her – and then the next moment _demanding_ that he do so before she'd consider marrying him? It was all too clear to him that she loved being queen; loved the power and prestige it gave her. But did she really understand that _privilege_ came with _responsibility_? He hadn't seen anything yet that made him think so.

* * *

He was on his way to speak to Alistair when he bumped into Riordan; the other Grey Warden had indeed made it to the safety of Arl Eamon's estate.

"Hello again, friend. It looks as though you're no worse for the wear after your stay in Fort Drakon," Riordan greeted him, smiling.

"Riordan. I'm glad to see you made it here," Right said. "Do you have a while? I have a lot of questions about the Grey Wardens that I'd love to know the answers to."

"Of course," Riordan said, smiling. "Shall we go somewhere more comfortable? And... private. I would prefer not to discuss Grey Warden secrets in a hallway."

Right nodded, and led the way to his sitting room. He spent a fascinating couple of hours grilling Riordan, learning more about their history, the Blights, the joining... They were, unfortunately, missing a key ingredient need to induct more people into the Grey Wardens, archdemon blood, the local carefully hoarded supply of which had gone missing when Howe and Loghain's men gutted the Grey Warden quarters of anything remotely useful.

Riordan also told him the location of a secret cache of Grey Warden equipment off of the Denerim market. Right was surprised; he'd been in the warehouse Riordan described and hadn't seen anything that would lead him to think there was a secret room concealed there – it obviously had a very well-hidden entrance.

He did notice that Riordan seemed... evasive, on some subjects, such as why none of the other Grey Warden establishments had sent any help since the Orlesian wardens had been turned back at the border, but overall was quite satisfied with the information he received.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Riordan said after a while. "I tire too quickly – it will be a while yet until I am recovered from my incarceration. If you have no questions that need immediate answer, I should probably return to my room and rest again."

The man _was_ looking rather pale. "Of course," Right said, rising to his feet. "It's almost time for lunch, anyway – would you like me to ask a servant to bring you a tray in your room?"

Riordan smiled. "Thank you, that would be most appreciated," he agreed, and the two parted ways in the hallway outside Right's door.

* * *

Right was relieved to see Zevran sitting at the table when he joined the others there for lunch. Unfortunately he had no chance to talk to him then; too many others around, and he'd no sooner entered the room before Eamon and Anora were signalling him to come sit by them. He had little choice but to do so.

"We've been discussing what else we can do to build up support prior to the Landsmeet," Eamon said. "Anora, please tell him what you were just saying to me."

"Of course," she said, and turned to look at Right. "You have only just arrived in the city, so perhaps you are unaware of some... recent events. Denerim has been in turmoil since Ostagar. Many people here are angry or grieving. Strangely, the unrest is worst in the alienage. Few elves accompanied the army. They should have little reason to be upset. Which means that Howe and my father must have given them reason. I don't know what is happening there, but I am certain my father has his hands in it."

Right nodded, not bothering to tell her that actually he did have a good idea of what had led to the unrest in the alienage. Though... Soris had been locked up for a long time; since before Ostagar. Anger over the disrupted wedding should surely have faded by now – especially after Vaughan, the instigator of it all, had vanished. There must be more to it.

"I'll take a small group there and investigate," he agreed, then concentrated on his food, casting occasional glances Zevran's way. The elf was avoiding his gaze, not even looking his way.

Anora and Eamon had returned to their own talk, discussing political matters in low tones. Her voice rising louder in persuasive tones caught his attention. "You need that evidence for the Landsmeet, but you also need a stronger candidate for the throne. You need _me_."

"And what of Alistair?" Eamon asked, nodding down the table to where Alistair sat at the far end, laughing at some joke Oghren was telling to him and Zevran.

Anora sniffed dismissively. "I have no doubt Alistair is biddable enough, and decent, but even with his blood he is no king. You think only I can see it? Not only that, Alistair is a Grey Warden. Given his involvement in your cause, it will look like Right is trying to put a Grey Warden on the throne, despite your claims. I am a neutral party – and I am _already_ queen."

"Anora, you are indeed Cailan's widow, but..." Eamon started to say, frowning.

"I am the daughter of Ferelden's greatest general," she interrupted him firmly. "Who do you think truly ruled this nation for the last five years? Cailan? _I_ am what this country needs, not an untrained king who does not even want the throne. I can help you stop my father. Consider what I have said. For now, I think I will retire to my room."

She rose to her feet and swept out of the room.

"Well, she's quite... spirited," Eamon said, smiling after her in an approving fashion. "I remember when Loghain first brought her to Denerim. Poor Cailan was a good boy, but Anora was always two steps ahead. Had him jumping when she snapped since the first time she batted her eyelashes."

He frowned, then continued. "Be careful how much trust you place in her. I do not for a moment think Anora means to give up her power easily. Still, I would rather have her where we can watch her than actively working for Loghain."

"And she's single now..." Right mused, looking thoughtfully down the table at Alistair.

"Are you thinking _you_ might stand a chance at courtship?" the Arl exclaimed, sounding horrified. "It would be unseemly for her to marry so soon after Cailan's death, even if you weren't a dwa... a Grey Warden yourself."

Right stared at Eamon for a moment. "It wasn't myself I was thinking of as a potential bridegroom," he finally said. What on earth would make the man think that _he_ was interested in the woman! Arl Eamon knew he was already in a relationship with Zevran; knew, and had made his distaste for it subtly known. "Excuse me, I have an expedition to the alienage to sort out," he said, rose to his feet, and stalked down the table to where his companions were seated.

"Need a small group of people for some more information gathering," he said quietly. "Alistair, Zevran... and Sten, could you all come?"

"Of course, kadan," Sten said, rising to his feet even as his hand engulfed the last few cookies on a plate nearby.

"Hey! Why not me, boss?" Oghren asked. "I'm missing out on all the fun lately."

"Try being a bit more sober when I'm looking for help, and I'll take you along too," Right said, looking pointedly at the just-refilled tankard in the dwarf's hand.

Oghren had the decency to blush, looked regretfully at the tankard, then put it down and pushed it away. "Fine," he muttered sourly. "I'll cut back."

Right turned and walked off, the three falling into step behind him.

* * *

He led the way to the Grey Warden cache first of all. The entrance was quite cleverly concealed; even knowing it was there, he couldn't see any sign of the entrance way until they'd triggered the lock.

The room was tight packed with weapon stands, armour stands, wardrobes, barrels and crates. Right quickly sorted through the contents, removing a few choice items.

He found a crate shoved into one corner, the name "Duncan" burned into the top slat of the side facing out. Inside was just a single, dusty item – a shield, emblazoned with the Grey Warden crest.

"Alistair... come here," Right called.

"What's that you've found?" Alistair asked, coming over to see. He stopped at the sight of what Right was holding out to him. "This... this shield. It's Duncan's, isn't it? That's his crest..."

"I thought maybe you might want it," Right said, pushing it into his hands.

Alistair took it, and turned it over, stroking his fingers gently across the surface, brushing off the last of the dust. "Thank you. Truly, I had no idea his shield wasn't with him. This is perfect," he said, sounding slightly choked up, then gave Right a brilliant smile. "I don't know how else to express my gratitude. This means a great deal to me. I can't believe you remembered it at all..."

"Of course I remembered," Right said, pleased by Alistair's reaction to the discovery.

"I'll treasure this. Thank you," Alistair said warmly, quickly stripping off his current shield – the one that had belonged to his brother – and replacing it with Duncan's.


	60. Quarentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right paused on the bridge, and looked at the buildings of the alienage across the river. Decrepit, tumble-down places, many leaning at dangerous angles, support by a combination of the neighbouring buildings and occasional frameworks of rough-hewn logs and boards. Holes in the walls were roughly patched with scavenged materials.

Right paused on the bridge, and looked at the buildings of the alienage across the river. Decrepit, tumble-down places, many leaning at dangerous angles, support by a combination of the neighbouring buildings and occasional frameworks of rough-hewn logs and boards. Holes in the walls were roughly patched with scavenged materials.

He resumed walking. As they drew closer he could see the streets were in poor condition, the road surface buckled and badly drained, peppered with standing puddles of stagnant water and gaping potholes. The place stank like a midden heap, with a strong undertone of sewage.

Oddly, though the look and most of the smells were entirely different, the place put Right strongly in mind of Dust Town, to the point of making him briefly homesick. Perhaps it was just that it, too, was a place where the outcasts of so-called normal society did their best to survive from day to day. Hopelessness, squalor, and fear... just like home.

He glanced at his companions. Alistair was looking unhappily at their surroundings. Sten's expression was even more set then usual, and Zevran had his lips pressed together, a disapproving look in his eyes. Stench was happily nosing at some smelly mess at the side of the road.

"Roll in anything smelly, and you're going to have to have a bath before you can go back inside at the estate," Right pointed out to the dog.

Stench whined, but abandoned whatever it was he'd been investigating, and trotted back over to Right's side.

"Were your people being thrifty when they built this place from refuse?" Sten asked Zevran, looking with visible distaste at a house leaning precariously toward the roadway.

Zevran didn't answer; he was eyeing the same building with much the same expression.

They pressed on, seeing few inhabitants until they emerged in an open area in the middle of the alienage. A huge tree towered into the sky there. Right had seen plenty of large trees in his travels, especially during their recent visit to the Brecilian forest, but something about this one just... stood out. He found himself staring up at it for several seconds, only belatedly becoming aware of the crowd of elves to one side of the square, standing in two lines, looking worried and afraid. Several guards and a pair of mages – Tevintar mages, judging by the style of their robes – stood facing the elves. A red-headed female elf was haranguing the waiting elves.

"The best thing you can do for your children is not trust these charlatans!" she cried.

One of the mages at the front of the lines gave her a dirty look, then held up his hands in a calming fashion toward the restless elves. "Everyone remain calm. We will help as many as we can today, so long as we can do this in an orderly fashion."

"Oh, you're 'helping' us, are you, shem? Like Valendrian and my uncle Cyrion, you helped them, didn't you? Helped them never to be seen again!" the woman bitterly exclaimed.

The mage frowned at her. "We've explained this to you before, girl. More whining will not persuade us to let you into the quarantine to carry plague back out to the Alienage," he said with exaggerated patience.

"Quit trying to get us all killed, Shianni! Some of us have still got things to live for." one of the men in the waiting crowd told the girl.

She spun to face him, demanding challengingly "If this spell of theirs works, why are half the people they quarantine perfectly healthy?"

Right stepped over to the girl. "What's going on?" he asked curiously.

She spun, the look of anger on her face changing to one of disdain as she looked at Right and his companions. "You shouldn't be here, _dwarf_. Your kind don't leave the Market District," she sneered.

Right snorted. Before he could say anything in return, her expression abruptly changed. "Wait... Soris told me about you. You're the one who freed him from the dungeons!" she exclaimed excitedly. She turned to glare at the mages and their guards again. "These foreigners say they're here to help with our outbreak of plague. Funny thing, though, all the people they 'help' disappear."

"That's not true, and you know it, Shianni! Both my sisters got the Tevinter spell cast on them, and they're fine," an older female elf scolded.

"Where's your niece, then? And my Uncle Cyrion? And Valendrian?" Shianni demanded of her.

"Slow down and just tell me what's happening here," Right said calmingly, leading her a few steps away.

Shianni drew a deep breath, getting her anger back under control. "These foreigners have taken dozens of elves into that house over the last few weeks, and none of them have been seen again," she explained. "One of them was our hahren, Valendrian. And I don't know what we're going to do if we don't get him back."

"Hahren?" Right said, puzzled by the unfamiliar term.

"He's... he's the elder. The person who guides us. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but it's important to us."

Right nodded. "I think I'll go take a look inside the hospice."

"They won't just let you in," Shianni pointed out.

Right snorted. "I wasn't going to ask," he said.

He turned and strolled towards the door, unsurprised when one of the guards held out an arm to block his path. "Hold! This place is full of plague victims. No one enters."

Right tried to talk his way past the guards, but for once his usual persuasiveness was failing him.

One of the mages noticed him and walked over, giving him a displeased look. "I ask you to stand back – some of these people are carrying the plague. The alienage is not safe for visitors."

Right didn't particularly feel like taking on two mages and a bunch of guards when he wasn't yet sure whether or not they were in the wrong; he withdrew a short distance away.

"Are we not going to take a look inside after all?" Zevran asked, frowning.

Right raised an eyebrow at him. "There's more ways to enter a building then through the front door," he pointed out. "As you very well know."

Zevran smiled. "True. Lead on, my friend."

* * *

A bit of poking around eventually led them to an alleyway in back of the building. It was easy enough to figure out which door was the back entrance; it, too, was guarded, by a lone elf this time. A little talk, a little bribery, and the door was no longer guarded.

Right picked the lock, and he and his companions went inside. There was no sign of sick elves inside, but there were several guards lounging around on the cots lining the sizable room. As soon as the guards noticed the intrusion, they were on their feet and drawing weapons.

After they'd dispatched the guards, Right quickly searched the room. At a desk in one corner he found a lot of gold, and a note talking about numbers of male and female elves for the 'next shipment'. Looked like that Shianni woman had been correct about there being something odd about this operation.

There was another door at one end of the room, leading to a second, smaller room. Zevran muttered something foul under his breath as they walked in – it was lined with cages, filled with healthy, frightened elves.

Right and Zevran quickly picked the locks, freeing the elves. When they asked about Valendrian, one of the elves told them he'd been taken away, through the back alley. Right told them to sneak out the back door, then led his group to the front door, pausing for a moment to draw one of his weapons, other hand on the door handle. He glanced at his companions. "Ready?"

Sten, Alistair and Zevran all nodded, their weapons already drawn, faces grim. Right opened the door, and they stepped out.

Knowing what opponents were waiting for them made the fight that broke out when they emerged ridiculously easy; Alistair shouting out a Holy Smite even as they emerged that temporarily froze the two mages and made them easy targets. Then there was just the guards and a couple of bespelled elves to deal with. It was over very quickly.

Shianni and the remaining elves were horrified to learn that of the dozens of elves taken into quarantine, only a handful had been found in the building. Right decided to search the back alleys for any further clue as to where they'd been taken, what had happened to them all.

They found nothing at first, until they entered a moldering tenement building that should have been packed with elves. It was nearly empty, apart from a sick woman in one unit, and a male elf rooting through discarded trash in a corner who fled at their approach. In every room they saw signs that elves had been here – and signs that their removal had not been peaceful. Blood stains, broken items, a child's abandoned doll, a meal left on a table half-eaten... whatever had happened here, it had been sudden and unexpected.

Then they opened another door, and sound a room full of guards behind it. Another brief fight ensued, after which Right took a quick look around the room. It looked like the guards had been making themselves at home here for a while; they had bunk beds set up against one wall, a meal cooking over the fire, and several trunks held personal belongings. A key found on one of the guards opened a very new and solid-looking metal-clad door at the end of the hallway; the room beyond had a door leading back outside.

They found themselves in another back alley, this one occupied by a cluster of guards, who were less then friendly to have a group of armed men showing up unexpectedly in their midst. They, too, were swiftly dispatched.

There was only one other door leading off the alley; by the look of it, an old warehouse of some kind. Undoubtedly it backed into the river, and must be how the elves were being shipped out.

As soon as they entered the warehouse, they found themselves being confronted by a dark-haired female elf, backed up by a lot of guards.

"What is the meaning of this? We were told that there would be no interference from the authorities!" she exclaimed, giving them a coldly angry look.

"I'm not with the 'authorities'," Right answered coolly.

"Oh? An errant group of do-gooders, then?" she sneered. "You will regret this, you know. Believe it or not, we have been given dispensation to do our business here. You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very _wrong_ slavery is, but isn't it funny how quickly the smell of gold overcomes such ideals?"

"You're slavers!" Alistair exclaimed, shocked by the very idea.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to acquire new blood? These slaves will fetch an excellent price in the Imperium, and we are paying handsomely for this opportunity. But enough. I am here to halt your slaughter, nothing more," she said dismissively.

"I'd certainly like to see you try," Right told her.

It was a nasty battle; as well as the elf herself being a good hand with a bow, she had several other archers, well-position so that they could fire at Right and his friends with impunity. It wasn't until they'd cut down the elf woman and all the other guardsmen that they were able to get at and deal with the archers. All of them bore wounds by the end of the fight; it was enough to make Right wish he had Wynne handy. They did what they could for themselves with poultices and bandages.

"How's your leg holding up?" Right asked softly as he helped Zevran bandage a new arrow wound on his upper arm; thankfully the arrow had only given him a deep graze to the skin, not any real damage to the underlying muscle.

Zevran shot him a look, then a slight smile touched his lips. "To tell the truth, I haven't even thought about it since yesterday afternoon. Hearing you were imprisoned... drove all other thoughts from my mind," he admitted softly. "It's well enough."

Right nodded, and squeezed his forearm momentarily before rising to his feet and looking around. "Everyone ready to move on?" he asked.

Grunts and nods of agreement met his question. They moved on, deeper in the warehouse. They encountered several other pockets of guards as they went, but none as large as the first group; not until they reached what was clearly the main room of the warehouse.

They emerged in a platform overlooking a large room, staircases at either end leading down to its floor level. Cages lined the walls, filled with elves; a door at the far side undoubtedly led to a docking area where they could be loaded on boats in the river, and taken to a ship in the harbour. A mage was standing in the middle of the room, talking to a group of guards. He turned at the noise of their entrance.

"I see we are to have an interruption," he drawled. "I am Caladrius. And you, I assume, must be the Grey Wardens I've heard so much about."

"I don't care who you are; you're going to die," Right said grimly.

"Are you certain you wish to commit such rash action, Grey Warden? Look around you. Surely we can reach some kind of... compromise?" Caladrius said smoothly. "I have heard that you are trying to erode Loghain's support. It must be a difficult task, yes? Like washing away a mountain. Perhaps you could use some help."

"Oh, this should be good," Alistair muttered.

Caladrius raised an eyebrow at Alistair. "Sarcasm is beneath us both, my dear Warden," he said, then turned his attention back to Right. "Truth be told, there was always a limit to how long we were going to be able to operate here. We've paid for many of Loghain's troops, but once the Landsmeet is done we become... inconvenient. So here is my offer: one hundred sovereigns from you for a letter with the seal of the Teyrn of Gwaren upon it, implicating him in all of this. Then we leave a few days earlier than planned, with our profits and remaining slaves... unharmed."

Right heard Zevran make a low hissing sound; he had little doubt the the least provocation would have the elf going for the mage.

"So... do we have a deal? Even you must admit it's much better than resorting to barbarism, yes?" Caladrius asked.

Right smiled, and folded his arms. "I have a counter-offer," he said calmly.

"What!" Zevran exclaimed, but subsided when Right flickered a glance his way.

"Interesting..." Caladrius drawled. "Go ahead...?"

"My offer is this: I kill you and take everything for free."

"Ahh, a _comedian_ ," Caldrius said, sounding disgusted. "Let's settle this the hard way, then."

Even as he sent a blast of magic their way, Right and his forces were splitting to either side, Right and Zevran dodging over to the left-hand staircase, Stench at their heels, while Alistair and Sten took the right one. Caladrius cursed as his spell missed them, then concentrated on casting additional magical spells.

There were too many soldiers between them and the mage for their usual kill-the-mage-first tactic to work; for a few minutes it looked like Caladrius had the advantage. Then Stench, taking advantage of a break in the forest of legs surrounding them, charged across and knocked the mage to the floor, tearing at him and keeping him occupied for a few crucial seconds before the mage was able to freeze him and break free again. The momentum had changed to Right's side; they'd cut down enough of the guards that They were able to push past and begin fighting the mage directly. Using his magic he was able to prevent the worst of the damage their blades otherwise would have done to him, but doing do was using up his energy fast.

He gave an angry shout, and one of his remaining guardsmen exploded into a cloud of bloody fragments. He was a blood mage, sacrificing his men for power. But he only had a few men left, and once they were gone – it wasn't long until his power ran out.

"Enough! Enough!" he cried, cowering away from their raised weapons. "It... seems your reputation is an accurate one. I surrender."

"Perhaps we should leave him to the mercies of these elves?" Zevran suggested, eyes narrowed in dislike as he considered the cowering mage.

Caladrius paled. "Wait! Hear me out, kind ser!" he begged Right. "Were I to... use the life force of the remaining slaves here, I could... augment your physical health a great deal! Allow me to leave this place alive and I would be more than happy to do this little service for you."

Right stared at him, appalled that the man would think he'd even consider such a barbaric offer.

"So... is my offer of interest to you? Yes?" Caladrius asked hopefully, mistaking his silence for consideration.

"No. It isn't," Right coldly replied, and cut him down.

They freed the elves after that. Valendrian was among the rescuees, and was surprised to hear that it was thanks to Shianni that they were here. He thanked them, then went to see about shepherding his fellow elves out of the building.

Right and his group spent a few minutes searching the room for any valuables worth taking. There was quite a lot of gold in one chest, a few decent weapons – and in Caladrius' pocket, the document he had mentioned, giving him permission to take elves away from the alienage in return for a sizable honorarium per elf, sealed with Teryn Loghain's seal, just as he'd described. Right shook his head in disgust, and carefully put that away in his backpack; Eamon would want to see that.


	61. Encounters and Engagements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It had been an orphanage; now it was an abattoir.

It had been an orphanage; now it was an abattoir.

Right had thought they'd discovered the worst of what had been occurring in the alienage when they'd cleared out the ring of slavers. But as they were working their way back to the bridge to return to the market, they'd had an unexpected encounter with a templar – a blind one. Well, mostly blind, Ser Otto said he could still make out light and shadowy shapes, but that was hardly enough for him to carry out the self-imposed mission that had apparently brought him to the alienage, trying to sniff out a nest of maleficarum that the templars felt were here somewhere.

Right hadn't been all that ready to believe the man at first – in his admittedly so-far-limited exposure to them, templars seemed all to ready to believe that there were maleficarum everywhere. But then he found himself thinking of the nest of blood mages they'd recently cleared out right here in Denerim, and decided it was worth a second look rather then an outright dismissal of the possibility.

It didn't take them long to discover some disturbing signs; pools of seemingly fresh blood with a strong rotten-eggs smell about them, in an area where there was no reason for any blood to be, and the corpse of a dog, long dead, but curiously uncorrupted. Both were near an orphanage that had been stormed by Bann Vaughan's men during the elven riot, months ago. Ser Otto decided it was worth taking a closer look at the site.

As soon as they entered the building, Right started to get a bad feeling. The place was dark and silent, filled with the reek of old death. It seemed that little to no effort had been made to clean the place up after the riot; everywhere they looked they saw signs of the vicious battles that had occurred here. Crude blockades and breastworks made of piled up furniture; blood liberally splashed on walls and puddled on floors. They glimpsed misty movement here and there, like the ghostly forms Right and his companions had seen in the ruins in the Brecilian forest; heard odd sounds, like snatches of speech, either distant or whispered, some in odd sing-song like children at play.

The further in they explored, the worse it was, the blood acquiring a curiously fresh look, a strong stink of sulphur and brimstone pervading the place. And bodies – bodies everywhere. Some badly burned yet oddly whole, lying among others reduced to skeletons by vermin in the months since the battle. Not all the vermin in here were small, either – in addition to numerous insects, mice and rats, they also encountered a whole pack of feral dogs, grown fat on the rich feeding they'd found here. Worse things, too, ghosts of the men who'd died here, still battling on, formless shades that attacked them as they moved from room to room.

"The... _feeling_ is intense here. This is the right place," Otto whispered as they paused in one room, taking a few minutes to catch their breath. "I know not if it's the work of the maleficarum - but there is definitely _evil_ here."

Right shivered, staring at one corner of the room, where a protective wall of tipped-over tables surrounded a cluster of pitifully small skeletons, the remains of what must have been adults who'd died trying to protect the children lying close at hand outside the low barrier. Horrors had happened here, the evidence of it was everywhere. If they'd had Wynne along, Right was certain that she'd have said the veil was worn thin here, torn and shredded by the many violent, senseless deaths.

Before he could give voice to his thought; he had sudden proof of it; the door to the room slammed shut, and a terrible voice spoke. "You think you are _safe_?" it demanded.

Ser Otto sunk to one knee, preying. "Though the Golden City has fallen, I have seen your face and your light, I am your..."

"Save your pedantic Chant for your sermons, templar. You have killed my brood!" the voice interrupted.

"The Maker compels you; show yourself!" Ser Otto commanded, rising to his feet again.

"The Maker? There is _no_ Maker! There is no Golden City! But there are demons, yesss..." the voice hissed angrily.

A book leapt from the floor, went flying at Ser Otto. Despite his blindness he sensed it, knocked it aside. "I hear not your blasphemy. By Andraste and all the Divine after Her, I order you to face me!" he thundered.

"You delusional _fool_!" the voice snarled, and a fiery demon sprouted from the floor. Right and his group closed in, weapons flashing. They dispatched it with startling speed.

"We have done it! I feel the darkness receding," Ser Otto exclaimed joyously. "I have seen the work of demon before. Some maleficarum consort with them. But the Maker must have guided..."

He broke off, staring down at the blood-coated tines of a pitchfork that had suddenly sprouted from his chest. A second, much larger demon rose out of the floor behind him, laughing evilly. "And _now you die_!" it gloated. Ser Otto fell to the floor, blood pooling around him, as Right cursed and led his companions back into the fray.

The battle was terrible; the demon summoned other, lesser demons to its aid, and gouts of flame filled the room, scorching and burning them when they didn't dodge quickly enough. One by one they cut down the lesser demons, whittling away at the larger one whenever they could. By the time it finally succumbed, it was too late to attempt saving Ser Otto, if there'd even been any chance of doing so once the pitchfork speared him. Alistair stared grimly down at the body; he hadn't known Ser Otto, and he'd never become a templar himself – nor had he wanted to – but Right suspected his time as a templar trainee made him feel some degree of fellowship with the man, however briefly known.

"Who should we report his death to?" Right asked him.

"The chantry," Alistair said quietly, crouching down to close his staring, milky-blind eyes. "I'll take care of it. I'll... tell them how his final mission ended. And where they can find his body," he said softly, rising back to his feet.

Right nodded, and led the way back out of the orphanage.

They returned to the Denerim market, Right and the rest of the group remaining waiting outside the chantry while Alistair went in to speak to the Revered Mother. He was looking only slightly less grim when he reemerged. "They'll send some templars to collect his body right away," he told them quietly, as they walked back to Arl Eamon's estate. "And some priests later to do what they can to bless the orphanage, for whatever good that does; hopefully that will at least make it harder for any further abominations or demons to break through there."

Right nodded. "Let's go let Eamon and Anora know what we've found," he said tiredly.

* * *

"Join me in a drink?" Right asked Alistair, holding up the stone bottle in one hand.

"I might, as long as that's not one of those terrible brews Oghren drinks," Alistair said.

"It's not – just some fairly decent ale from the Arl's cellar. Come on, let's find somewhere we can sit down and enjoy it in peace. Preferably without being interrupted."

Alistair nodded, and the two wandered off, quickly deciding on a place up on the battlements of the estate as a good spot; it had a good view, enough of a breeze to keep them comfortably cool, and was sufficiently out of the way that they had decent privacy. They sat down against the crenellated wall, and took turns swigging from the wide-mouthed bottle.

"So I just saw Anora not long ago. Strange story," Alistair abruptly said. "She gave me the strangest look, like she was sizing up whether the cow was ready for slaughter. I asked her why. You know what she said? 'It would be like marrying his twin.' I misheard that, right? Tell me I misheard."

Right sighed. "You didn't mishear," he said. "It's... something we should at least think about, anyway."

Alistair frowned. "I can't say I like the idea at all. Why should I even consider something like this?"

"It's the smart move. And I think you know that, too," Right pointed out. "I think this is the best compromise for peace."

"Compromise? Yes, I suppose the Landsmeet would like the sound of that," Alistair agreed. "Maybe you're right. I hate it when you're right."

Right grinned. "I'm _always_ Right," he pointed out.

"Ouch! Quick, pass me that bottle, I need more ale to cushion that one."

Right laughed and passed him the ale. "I hate asking you to do this," he confessed. "If we had some other choice... but it's either support Anora as Queen in her own right in order to have her support against her father, or support you as King with both her and her father opposing the move... or co-opt her support by you marrying her. If you can think of another reasonable option, I'm willing to hear it out."

Alistair took another swig, then sighed. "All right. You've convinced me. If it comes to that... I'll agree to marry her, Maker help us all. Go and tell her, if you think it's a good idea. Me, I think I need a drink. Or ten."

"Good thing we're already drinking. Though I think we're going to need another bottle soon, this one is almost empty. You might as well finish that off... I'll go let Anora know you've agreed to marry her. And I suppose we should tell the Arl, too, he'll need to take it into his calculations for the Landsmeet."

Alistair made a face. "He's either going to love it or hate it. Possibly even both at the same time. Me... I guess I'll have to learn to live with the idea," he said glumly. "Marrying my brother's widow... what a weird, weird idea."

"If it helps, I think Anora will find it just as... odd, as you do," Right told him.

"What if it doesn't work out though," Alistair said, frowning. "I'd hate to be stuck with a wife whom I hated."

Right shrugged. "Worry about that if it comes to it. We might all be dead soon anyway, if we fail to end this Blight. Or you and Anora may fall wildly in love. Or at least like each other reasonably well."

"Or hate each other's guts."

"Also a possibility, but don't forget those letters we found at Ostagar; Eamon was trying to convince Cailan that she was barren and should be put aside. If, in a few years time, you've found the two of you are incompatible, and she hasn't given you any children, I don't think you'd find it too hard to get his support for the idea of annulling the marriage and finding a more compatible – and fertile – young woman to marry."

Alistair made a face. "I hate to think that way. But I suppose you're right, I shouldn't worry about it now."

"I'm always..."

"Yes, yes, you said that one already. Go and tell Anora she has her sacrificial cow. Or bull. Whatever."

Right nodded, touched Alistair's shoulder, and walked away.

* * *

Anora was surprised that Alistair had agreed, but seemed to adjust to the idea fairly quickly. Arl Eamon was even more surprised, but quickly saw the political benefits of the arrangement and supported it as wholeheartedly as if it had been a treasured idea of his own.

By the time he'd finished seeing to everyone – including making sure a by then rather drunken Alistair made it safely to his own bed – Right was feeling worn out. He headed to his own bedroom, stopping abruptly when he walked in and found Zevran there, sitting on the rug in front of the fire.

"I do have seats, you know," he pointed out mildly, walking over to the elf's side. "Pretty comfortable ones, too."

Zevran turned his head and looked up at Right, wordlessly. The look in his eyes seemed as hurt and confused as Right himself was feeling over the splintering of their relationship.

"Zevran... what changed with us?" he asked softly.

Zevran turned away, staring into the fire. "Are you certain you wish to talk about this? I really do not know what to say."

"Yes, I want to know what's changed," Right said, and sat down beside him on the carpet. He itched to take the elf by the hand, but was scared of driving him away again.

Zevran sighed. "Very well," he said, then stared pensively down at his hands for a moment before continuing. "An assassin... must learn to forget about sentiment. It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless. I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet..." He stopped, swallowed heavily, and looked away.

"Are you... saying you're in love with me?" Right asked, hesitantly.

Zevran darted a look at him, looking much more frightened then Right had ever seen him. "I don't know. How would you know such a thing?" he asked, voice rasping with strain. "I grew up amongst those who sold the illusion of love, and then I was trained to make my heart cold in favour of the kill. Everything I have been taught says what I feel is _wrong_. Yet I cannot help it. Since you asked me into your tent, I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand me at all?"

"Maybe... it would be better for you if we stopped," Right said, his own voice hoarse. He didn't _want_ to end it, but if it was what Zevran needed...

"Maybe it would," Zevran softly admitted, then looked at him again, meeting his eyes this time, looking at him searchingly, almost... hopefully. "But only if it is impossible that there might be something between us, some possibility of... I do not know what."

Right swallowed, then slowly reached out and took Zevran's hand in his, gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't know. But I know how I feel about you," he whispered, and tried to say with touch and look what he still couldn't bring his lips to speak.

"I... still have the earring. I would like to give it to you... as a token of affection. Will you take it?" Zevran asked softly, his own hand tightening on Right's.

Right gave a strangled laugh. "That sounds like a proposal," he said.

For a moment Zevran was silent. Right began to panic, worrying that he'd managed to say the exact wrong thing again, then the slightest of smiles curved Zevran's lips. "Not unless you wish it," he said, one eyebrow raised questioningly, his voice a pale ghost of his usual teasing tone, but _there_ , the old Zevran back again.

"I'll take it," Right told him fervently, feeling an overwhelming surge of happiness.

"Then that is enough for me," Zevran said simply, and began to smile. "I am sorry for acting so strangely. I think I will be better, now. _Much_ better."

"Me, too," Right agreed, and leaned forward to kiss him.


	62. The Landsmeet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How do I look?" Alistair asked nervously.

"How do I look?" Alistair asked nervously.

Right smiled. "Like a royal bastard... my prince."

Alistair snorted. "Better then being a right bastard."

"Oh, who's been feeding you meat? That was actually an almost-nasty comeback," Right exclaimed, grinning, then walked around Alistair, pausing once to tighten a buckle. "Glad I had Wade refurbish this set; when you walk into the Landsmeet, people are going to look at you and see your brother. They'll find it hard to argue that there's little evidence for you being Maric's son when their eyes are busy telling them otherwise."

Alistair made a face. "I'd rather they accepted it without the trickery," he said.

Right shrugged. "So would I, but as close as Arl Eamon says this is likely to be, we should grab every advantage we have. And if that means dressing you in your brother's armour, with your father's sword..."

"Then I'll do it," Alistair agreed reluctantly. "Though I'm keeping Duncan's shield. When they look at me, I'd _also_ like them to remember that I'm a Grey Warden. And what we stand for."

"Ending the Blight, by whatever means necessary," Right said softly.

Alistair nodded in grim agreement. "Even if it means having to force an end to a civil war to do so."

Zevran strolled into the room, pausing to smile warmly at Right before looking Alistair over. "Very pretty," he said. "You will make all the ladies and half the men swoon. Well, perhaps less then half, you Fereldans are so depressingly repressed about such things. Anyway, we should go; the Arl and Anora left for the palace some time ago."

Right nodded agreement, and they headed out, picking up Oghren on their way. The dwarf had kept sober for once, and was a little surly from the resultant hangover, but Right figured that of their remaining companions, he was the most diplomatic choice. The dwarves of Orzammar were at least arguably traditional allies of Ferelden, unlike the qunari, while Shale and Wynne would both be too much of a distraction, being in the one case too unusual and in the other too magical to put the Landsmeet at ease.

They entered the palace a while later only to find their way blocked by Ser Cauthrien and several of her men.

"Warden, I am not surprised it has come to this," she said coolly. "And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric's son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet, now wouldn't you?"

She turned her attention back to Right. "You have torn this nation apart to oppose my lord, and never once tried to understand why he is a hero to Ferelden. But do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as regent, and we can finally put this to rest once you are gone."

"Do you really not see what Loghain has become?" Alistair asked. "He is no longer the hero he once was."

Ser Cauthrien bit back a response, then to Right's surprise looked away, seeming unable to meet his and Alistair's eyes. "I have had...so many doubts of late," she said hesitently. "Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness. He has done terrible things, I know it, but I owe him everything. I _cannot_ betray him, do not ask me to!"

"Then let us stop him. You know it's the only way," Right told her.

She stood frozen a moment. Her hand strayed uncertainly toward her weapon hilt, then she abruptly stepped to one side, and went down on one knee. "I never thought duty would taste so bitter. Stop him, Warden. Stop him from betraying everything he once loved," she said, voice hoarse, then raised her head and looked pleadingly at the pair of them. "Please... show mercy. Without Loghain, there would _be_ no Ferelden to defend."

Right nodded. Alistair looked troubled. They marched forward, leaving the woman behind to gather her composure, and her confused men, and lead them away.

* * *

Arl Eamon was just finishing a lengthy speech as Right, Alistair, Zevran and Oghren entered. The lords were muttering angrily as he finished, then the sound of loud, slow clapping drew everyone's attention to Teryn Loghain, as he walked slowly to the centre of the chamber and looked up at the Arl.

"A fine performance, Eamon, but no one here is taken in by it," he called out derisively. "You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it. The better question is, 'Who will pull the strings?' Ah! And here we have the puppeteer!" he exclaimed theatrically, gesturing to where Right and his group were slowly working their way up the centre aisle toward him.

"Tell us, Warden: how _will_ the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?" he asked bitterly. "Where is the famous steadfastness of the dwarves? How much did it cost the empress to buy your loyalty?"

"The Blight is the threat here, not Orlais!" Right responded, pitching his voice to carry.

"There are enough refugees in my bannorn now to make that abundantly clear," Bann Alfstanna agreed from the audience.

"The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?" another lord – Arl Wulff, Right thought – asked loudly.

"The Blight is indeed real, Wulff. But do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?" Loghain asked. "They _claim_ that they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers. And once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?"

"You allowed Rendon Howe to imprison and torture innocents," Right spoke out. Better to accuse then to try to defend himself from Loghain's own accusations, especially since he thought Loghain was likely correct that the Orlesians, once invited in on any pretext, would find excuses to stay well beyond when they'd worn out their welcome.

"The Warden speaks truly!" Bann Sighard rose to his feet, scowling down at Loghain. "My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him... some of them are beyond any healer's skill."

"Howe was responsible for himself. He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life. As must we all," Loghain responded placatingly, then turned to glare at Right. "But _you_ know that. _You_ were the one who murdered him. Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his home."

"Is there justice in selling elves to Tevinter?" Right asked, keeping his voice calm and unstressed with an effort of will.

Bann Sighard's frown deepened. "Selling elves? Explain this, Loghain!" he demanded.

"This is war. Did you believe it would be like the old tales: knights with pennants flying over battlefields where all outcomes are decided simply and with honour? War is cruel. Every soul who fought alongside Maric knows this. And in it, there are no such things as innocents, only the living and the dead, and the degrees of guilt both bear. Sacrifices were made. If they were too great, the Maker will judge me for it. But enough of this. I have a question for you, Warden: _What have you done with my daughter?_ "

Right was surprised to hear real fear in the man's voice; abruptly he was certain that whatever Arl Howe may have told or hinted to Anora, Loghain would never have agreed to sacrificing her to further his aims, possibly never even knew she was being held captive by his supposed ally.

"What have I done? I've protected her from _you_ ," Right answered.

"You took my daughter - our queen – by force, killing her guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her? Does she even still live?"" Loghain demanded angrily.

"I believe I can speak for myself," Anora's voice rang out. With a gasp, everyone rose to their feet as she calmly walked in a door at the back. Teryn Loghain froze, back still to his daughter, his eyes dropping closed and a look of profound relief momentarily crossing his face.

Anora waited a moment for the worst of the astonished murmuring to fade, then resumed speaking. "Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me. My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the hero of River Dane."

Loghain whirled, looking astonished and infuriated at her words.

" _This man_ turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn. _This man_ seized Cailan's throne before his body was cold, and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery. I would have already been _killed_ , if not for this Grey Warden."

"The queen speaks the truth," Alistair called out.

"So the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora?" Loghain asked bitterly. "I wanted to protect you from this," he said softly, then spun back face the lords, voice rising to echo throughout the hall again. "My lords and ladies, our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded, and lost, and won times beyond counting. We Fereldans have proven that we will _never_ truly be conquered so long as we are united. We _must not_ let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself!"

The gathered lords began responding. It quickly became apparent that Teryn Loghain had almost no support among them; between the dislike many of them had already felt for the common-born Teryn, Arl Eamon's careful politicking, and the support Right and Alistair had won with their efforts over the past few days, not to mention Anora's unexpected stand against her own father, it was quickly clear that the mood was against him.

Right glanced at Loghain. The Teryn's face was set in a mask; even now, it seemed he was finding it hard to believe that he'd lost. "The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain. Step down gracefully," Right said in a low whisper pitched to carry to his ears only.

Loghain shot him a venomous glare before turning on the Landsmeet. "Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?" he roared out angrily. " _You_ fought with us once, Eamon. You _cared_ about this land once. Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How _dare_ you judge me!" he thundered.

Some men ran into the chamber at the sound of the commotion; guardsmen in the employ of Teryn Loghain. But there was only a handful of them, looking lost and confused, and Ser Cauthrien was absent.

"Call off your men and we'll settle this honourably," Right told Loghain.

Loghain turned and glared at him. "Then let us end this," he spat, then continued quietly. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this. A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me."

He looked up at the lords, raised his voice again. "Enough. Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel."

Bann Alfstanna answered calmly. "It shall be fought according to tradition: a test of arms in single combat until one party yields. And we who are assembled will abide by the outcome."

"Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion?" Loghain asked.

"I'll fight this duel myself," Right said, quickly considering and discarding the others. He couldn't trust Alistair not to kill the man, and he'd as much as promised both Anora and Ser Cauthrien that he'd be merciful on him. Zevran... was a foreign assassin. It would look very bad for him to fight and perhaps kill the Teryn. And of Oghren and the dog, Right was more likely to trust the dog to carry out his orders properly, at least when it came to leaving someone alive at the end of a battle. No, best all around if he handled it himself; at least if anything went seriously wrong, he'd only have himself to blame.

Loghain nodded acceptance. "It is you or me the men will follow. So let us fight for it. Prepare yourself," he said.

The crowd fell back, clearing a space. Right and Loghain slowly began to circle, eyeing each other for any sign of weakness or fault. Loghain, Right quickly noticed, had obviously kept himself in fighting trim; he moved like a man half his age. He had a hard-earned reputation as a formidable fighter, and Right doubted he'd lost much of his edge merely because he'd aged a fair bit since first earning it. More, that heavy armour of his was going to make it difficult to land telling blows.

On the other hand it _was_ heavy; it would slow down and tire Loghain much faster then Right's own light, supple leathers did. It was going to come down to his ability to avoid Loghain's heavier blows while making his own count, until he could tire the man enough to take him down.

The fight began. He'd forgotten the Teryn was a champion; only his natural resistance to magic kept Loghain's stunningly loud war cry from freezing him. The Teryn had clearly counted on it for an early edge, and his brief surprised hesitation when Right remained in motion allowed Right to slip close and land a stunning blow, quickly followed up by punishing blows meant to cripple the man.

Loghain shook off the attacks, blocked a couple more with sword and shield, then went back on the offensive, Right having to dodge his blows again and again, backing around and around the circle, darting in when he could. After several minutes he managed to land another stunning blow, and rushed in with a flurry of blows, to his surprise managing to knock the Teryn off of his feet. He held his sword to the man's throat, both of them panting heavily from the exertion of the fight.

"I underestimated you, Warden. I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war," Loghain said quietly, his words for Right alone. "I was wrong. There's a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died."

He raised his voice, loud enough to be heard throughout the chamber, his tone resigned and bitter. "I yield."

Right stepped back, drew a deep breath in relief. "I accept your surrender," he replied in an equally carrying voice.

"I didn't just hear you say that," Alistair exclaimed, staring at Right in disbelief. "You're going to let him live? After everything he's done? Kill him, already!" he shouted.

"Wait! There is another option!" Riordan called, hobbling in from the shadows to one side where he'd apparently been all along. "The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."

"You want to make him a Warden? Why?" Right asked, frowning. "Would that even work? He's not exactly loyal to us."

"There are _three_ of us in all of Ferelden. And there are... compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the archdemon. And what does loyalty matter? We are what we are," Riordan continued. "The Joining binds us to the darkspawn. You know this. If you were to forswear your oath and flee today, you'd find yourself in the Deep Roads or the Blight-lands, given time. You'd seek them out, or they'd seek you."

"The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?" Anora asked, looking worriedly at her father.

"Absolutely not! Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?" Alistair demanded angrily.

Right sighed. "Riordan has a point, we should put him through the Joining."

Alistair's expression turned thunderous. "Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment! Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all! I will _not_ stand next to him as a brother. I won't!"

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair," Right said quietly.

"Loghain is a traitor! We need him like we need to be stabbed in the back! Or have you forgotten how his being a great general didn't help the last time?" Alistair spat. He turned away for a moment, then turned back, looking anguished. "I didn't want to be king. I still don't. But... if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I'll do it. I'll take the crown."

"Listen to this! Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be, putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country? You can't seriously support him!" Anora exclaimed angrily, looking back and forth between Right and Alistair.

"I thought the two of you were going to marry?" Right asked dryly.

Anora looked taken aback for a moment, then looked uncertainly at Alistair. He ignored her, staring at Right. "And _I_ thought you weren't going to stab me in the back. Funny how nothing ever turns out like you thought," he said bitterly.

"Alistair, compose yourself," Anora said softly.

Alistair turned and looked at her, then looked away again. "Fine. You want Loghain in the Grey Wardens so badly? Then I'll be leaving the Wardens to marry Anora," he said, voice cracking.

"You can't just stop being a Warden, Alistair," Right said as gently as he could.

"Watch me," Alistair said, voice hoarse, turning to stare at Right, his expression bleak.

Anora pursed her lips. "This can be discussed later. We are keeping the Landsmeet waiting," she said quietly, then turned back to face the gathered lords. "And now, lords and ladies of Ferelden. There is still a Blight to defeat and armies to gather, and I appoint this man to lead us in both," she spoke out in carrying tones, gesturing at Right. A low murmur of approval began, swiftly riding to a low roar.

"We will _not_ allow this land to be further threatened by the archdemon," she continued, voice rising further yet. "Gather your forces and await the Warden's command. On the morrow, we shall begin our struggle against the greatest threat Ferelden has ever faced. And we shall triumph over it, for we _are_ Fereldan!"

A full-throated roar met her remarks. She stood a moment, absolutely still, head raised, then turned and looked expectantly at Alistair. He barely hesitated before offering her his arm, and the two walked out of the Landsmeet chamber together, at least simulating accord, whatever their private feelings on the matter were.

Right sighed in relief. It was over. They'd won; at least, they'd succeeded in ending the civil war, and could now concentrate on winning the real one.

He just wished it could have been done at less cost to Alistair.


	63. A New Companion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," Riordan intoned, lifting the carefully prepared goblet and turning to offer it to Loghain.

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," Riordan intoned, lifting the carefully prepared goblet and turning to offer it to Loghain.

Loghain's icy blue eyes narrowed, then he reached out and took it, holding it cupped in both hands. As he raised it, Riordan spoke again. "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."

Loghain nodded. "I... understand," he said, then drank the cup to the very dregs.

He stood a moment, wavered, then dropped like a felled tree.

* * *

"So it's done. My father lives, and for good or ill he is now a Grey Warden," Anora said softly, standing in the door of the room where Right and his companions – conspicuously short by one, Alistair having absented himself since the Landsmeet – were gathered. "Thank you for... giving him the opportunity to undergo the ritual. It couldn't have been easy." she said uncertainly.

"He has a lot to redeem himself for," Right said quietly.

Anora nodded sadly. "He does indeed," she agreed, then looked away uncomfortably. "My future husband is upstairs, no doubt glaring out the window and pouting. He is... so much like Cailan it's disturbing."

"I should talk to him," Right said, frowning, and not looking forward to it. He doubted Alistair would be ready to forgive him for his decision any time soon – if he ever was.

"If you like. I suspect he's not apt to be very receptive in that mood," Anora said softly, then visibly gathered herself. "Arl Eamon has left for Redcliffe, and tells me that our armies have almost fully gathered there. I will be heading there, myself. Bring your companions and join us at Redcliffe Castle as soon as you are able. You have united Ferelden, Warden... now we face the Blight."

Right nodded. "I will be there as soon as I am able; there are some things I must do first, but they shouldn't take long. We should reach Redcliffe by the time the army has finished mustering."

Anora nodded. "As you say," she said softly. "Will you... be taking my father with you?"

"Yes," Right said, gently. "He's a Grey Warden now. He'll need to... adjust to the change."

She nodded again. "As will we all," she said sadly, then turned and walked away.

Right glanced at the others. "Be ready to leave first thing tomorrow," he told them. "I'm going to go speak with Alistair now."

He wasn't hard to find. Alistair looked up and smiled bitterly when he saw who had come into Anora's sitting room. "Oh. There you are," he said, voice flat and emotionless. "Come to offer congratulations, I suppose? Maybe you intend to throw me a party to celebrate my engagement?"

"I don't want this to ruin our friendship," Right said quietly.

Alistair looked startled for a moment, then ashamed. "Neither do I, really. But it's too late for that now, I think. I don't know why you made Loghain a Grey Warden, but he's tainted it for me. The man is a traitor and you gave him the greatest honour I can think of."

"This is his chance to make things right," Right answered, knowing it was an inadequate answer, but it was the only one he could offer.

Alistair shook his head. "There is no way to make that right. No way at all. But why should I complain, right? I'm the king now, and with a beautiful fiance who is going to remind me of her father every time I look at her. I'll make the best of it, I guess. I'm not going to just roll over and let Anora rule, that's for sure," he said, voice firm.

He hesitated, then looked away, head down, face sad and troubled. "Well. Good luck, I suppose. You have a lot to do, now... and so do I." He reached out, settling his hand on Right's shoulder for a moment, then turned and walked silently away to his own room, head still bowed.

Right said nothing; what could he say, after all. Even he wasn't sure of the wisdom of his decision, just that it had seemed the correct choice to make at the time.

* * *

Right returned to his room later to find Zevran lying sprawled on the bed, still fully dressed, a mischievous smile on his face. "What are you grinning about?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing... just that I went for a walk, and happened to bump into our friend Slim. He's got another job for us. Against the same fellow who set that trap for us before, though he swears his information is better this time. Are you game?"

Right barely thought about it, just grinned. "Count me in. One last mission for the pair of us, eh?"

Zevran answered with a matching grin.

They snuck out of the estate once it was full dark, Stench at their heels; the dog again refused to be left behind. Getting him up onto the rooftops to begin with was tricky, but once he was there, he proved as silent and light on his feet as Right and Zevran, and better then either of them at jumping from roof to roof. Once they reached Bann Franderel's estate, they had the fun of entering the place via a chimney – Zevran going first to make sure the coast was clear, muttering darkly about the state his leathers would be in after descending the sooty chimney, then Right had to lower Stench on a harness of knotted rope before descending in his own turn.

After that they snuck through the estate, disabling traps and guards as they progressed, until they finally reached the location where Slim said the secret storeroom was. His information proved correct this time, and they quickly plundered the Bann's treasures before sneaking out of the place again, this time exiting over a wall instead of through the sewers.

They were both grinning happily all the way back to Arl Eamon's estate; it had been a good run together. They took the time to clean the soot from their leathers, and bathed together with much whispering and quiet laughter before finally retiring to bed. Right knew he might regret the lack of sleep later, but also knew he would never regret having taken the opportunity to go thieving again with Zevran.

* * *

Anora and Alistair had departed at first light; Right and his group took a more leisurely departure, breakfasting first and checking all their gear before setting out, Loghain a grim, silent presence in their midst.

Right had made him change out of his usual armour; it was too recognizable, and he thought it would be better if as few people as possible recognized the warrior for who he was. Loghain had taken the news silently, stripping off the armour he'd worn for so many years and leaving it lying on the floor without so much as a backwards glance or a single sign of regret.

It wasn't until they were on the road well out of Denerim that Loghain finally broke his silence. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"A couple of places. Orzammar, to start; we'll be passing close by it on our way around the north end of the lake anyway, and I have a couple things I'd like to take care of there before we continue south to Redcliffe. And we'll be making another detour on the way."

"Why Redcliffe?" Loghain asked, sounding puzzled.

"Because that's where the army is mustering; we'll meet up with everyone there."

Loghain frowned, looking annoyed. "But why muster _there_? It's hardly the place where the darkspawn are most likely to attack."

Right snorted, gave Loghain a look. "Unfortunately we didn't have much choice about where to hold the muster," he said dryly. "Seeing as there was the small matter of a civil war preventing us from gathering some place more logical."

Loghain's frown deepened. "Point taken," he said after a while, and resumed his previous silence.

It wasn't very long before they had their first opportunity to evaluate Loghain as a companion; a large group of bandits thought their small group looked ripe for plunder. Loghain worked with cool efficiency, taunting the bandits into concentrating on him while the remainder of the group concentrated on taking the bandits out one by one; the bandits were largely disorganized and poorly skilled. It was a nasty, one-sided slaughter, ending with the majority of the bandits dead, only a few of the smartest or luckiest escaping into the surrounding woods.

"Fools," was Loghain's pithy judgement of the bandits, as he crouched and tore a ragged scrap of cloth off one body to use to wipe his sword clean before resheathing it. It was the only word he spoke until they finally stopped for camp that night. He stood and watched their well-polished routine of setting up their fire pit, gathering wood and water, Zevran already sorting through the ingredients in their packs.

"Do you have a spare bow?" he abruptly asked Right.

"Might. What do you want it for?"

"Hunting. There should be game around here somewhere," he said dryly.

Right nodded, and went sorting through their gear, soon turning up the bow he'd taken from the elven woman they'd encountered among the Tevintar slavers, as well as a quiver full of scavenged arrows.

Loghain's eyebrows rose at the quality of the bow. "Very nice," he said, running a hand appreciatively along its curved shape. He quickly divested himself of his armour, leaving himself clad in just wool leggings, leather stockings, and padded gambeson, strung the bow, slung the quiver over his back, and disappeared into the forest.

Zevran looked questioningly at Right. "You're not worried that he might flee?"

Right shrugged. "Where to? He has no allies any more; besides he surrendered. And he and I are both Wardens, I can tell where he is even when he's not in sight."

Zevran nodded and went back to sorting out seasonings.

Loghain returned a short while later, a pair of rabbits in hand. He unstrung and put aside the bow, then efficiently cleaned and skinned the beasts, handing the carcasses over to Zevran. After that he just sat and stared blindly into the fire, until Right walked over and held a tin plate of stewed rabbit in front of him. He took it with just a grunt for acknowledgement, and ate hungrily. Right suppressed a smile as how quickly he inhaled it; he was certainly showing the excessive appetite of the typical Grey Warden already.

"How well did you know Maric?" Right asked curiously, sitting down beside him and starting in on his own plate of stew.

Loghain gazed at him silently for a long moment, then gave an infinitesimal shrug and looked away. "He was my friend. If he'd wanted to conquer the Fade, I would have led the charge."

"How did you meet him?"

The faintest ghost of a smile touched his face for a moment. "I was hunting – well, poaching, to be entirely honest – when a boy my own age came stumbling out of the woods. He was so dirty, you'd have thought he'd been dug up out of the ground. He was running away from the traitorous boot-lickers who'd just murdered the queen. Though I didn't know it at the time. He was bloody, exhausted, and obviously being hunted. I offered to take him to my father's camp. I didn't find out who he was for a while, though."

Right looked at him curiously. "That's it? That's the whole story?"

"I know a bard would make it out to be better, but it isn't a story to me. I lived it. There were no heroes or villains, no great deeds, no endings, happy or otherwise." Loghain said quietly.

"What made Maric such a great king?"

"There are men who inspire such devotion that everyone around would lay down their lives for him. And there are men who come and go from this world, and no one notes it," Loghain said, softly. "What makes them so? Your guess is as good as mine. Maric was remarkable; that's all I can say of him."

Zevran walked over just then and split the remainder of the stew between their two plates. Loghain frowned, noticing that he and Right were the only two to receive seconds. "Extra rations for the Wardens?" he asked, raising an eyebrow ironically. "Special privilege?"

"No. Necessity. You'll notice in the days to come that we need considerably more food then non-Wardens. What would adequately feed the rest of our companions would be slow starvation for us."

"Ah. And what other wonderful changes can I expect to learn of in the days to come?"

"Nightmares; pretty nasty ones, especially now that the archdemon is on the move," Right said grimly. "And you can sense the darkspawn; they can sense you too. We'll be magnets for any in the area. Which at least has the advantage of attracting them to those best able to deal with them. Long term changes... well, let's not worry about those until we actually survive this Blight."

Loghain snorted. "A good plan," he agreed. "I'm turning in."

He added his plate to the pile of them by the fire, then walked over to where he'd left his gear earlier, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down.

Right gave Zevran a hand cleaning up, then the two retired to the far side of the camp, not actually sharing a bedroll tonight, but sleeping side by side out of habit.

"And what do you think of our newest companion?" Zevran asked softly.

Right frowned, and thought for a moment. "I'm not sure yet. He's... different then I'd expected."

Zevran snorted. "Different better, or different worse?"

"I don't know. Ask me again in a few days, maybe."

Zevran grinned. "I'll do that," he promised.


	64. Hard Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loghain soon fit into their party. He carried the bow all the time now, ready to take any target of opportunity that would provide fresh meat for the pot. He rarely spoke, unless directly questioned, and then kept his answers short and to the point; rather like Sten, in many ways, though he avoided the company of the qunari – apparently considering him a foreign spy, which Right had to admit had more then a grain of truth to it. And for similar reasons avoided Zevran as well. Wynne avoided him from her own choice, leaving very few among their number who were at all accepting of him.

Loghain soon fit into their party. He carried the bow all the time now, ready to take any target of opportunity that would provide fresh meat for the pot. He rarely spoke, unless directly questioned, and then kept his answers short and to the point; rather like Sten, in many ways, though he avoided the company of the qunari – apparently considering him a foreign spy, which Right had to admit had more then a grain of truth to it. And for similar reasons avoided Zevran as well. Wynne avoided him from her own choice, leaving very few among their number who were at all accepting of him.

Right was amused to notice that of all of them, it was the mabari who was most welcoming of his presence. Stench had long been in the habit of trotting alongside either Right or Sten as they travelled; now he was as likely to be found at Loghain's side. Right had to admit he found the mabari's easy acceptance of the taciturn man a point in Loghain's favour; the hound had always seemed a good judge of character.

Which made his actions since Ostagar all the more baffling to the dwarf. They seemed so at odds with everything he'd learned of Loghain's past since he'd begun studying up on the history and culture of Ferelden so many months ago. A fierce warrior, a talented general, one of the forces responsible for Ferelden's freedom from Orlesian rule, a sure and steady ruler of his own lands, with a reputation for fair judgements... all this seemed at odds with his abandonment of King Cailan and the army at Ostagar, and the repulsive actions of himself and his allies in the year since.

They were almost to Orzammar before Right finally worked up the nerve to ask him about it. The two of them were taking a turn washing the dishes after supper, Loghain efficiently scrubbing the tin plates and the stew pot with sand in the cold water of a stream near their encampment, while Right dealt with the smaller pieces - the cutlery and mugs – and dried and repacked things.

"Ostagar," Right said, haltingly, not sure how to phrase his question. There was no _good_ way to ask it... more or less abrasive ways, perhaps, but that was the limit of choice.

"What about it?" Loghain asked in clipped tones.

" _Why_. Alistair and I _lit the beacon_ , why did you leave! Why did you abandon Cailan and the army to their deaths..."

Loghain dropped the plate he was currently scrubbing, whirled to look at Right. "Did you think I _wanted_ to?" he demanded, voice harsh. "Cailain was the son of the two people I loved most in this life. I helped raise him! He was my daughter's husband, and my king!" He fell silent a moment, jaw clenching, face going almost grey as he struggled to contain his emotions. "We had our differences, I won't pretend that all was ever smooth between the two of us. He was careless, impetuous, easily swayed by visions of glory... he was never going to be the king his father had been, but... no one could do that. _Be_ that. But I loved him. And the damned fool wouldn't listen to a word I said, he _insisted_ on being in the vanguard, insisted on having those thrice-cursed Grey Wardens at his side, as if their mere presence would render him invulnerable to the usual accidents of battle."

He turned away, staring into the forest across the stream, eyes seeing a scene months ago and far away. He spoke again, voice a hoarse whisper of sound. "There was far more darkspawn then we'd expected, then even our worst case planning for that battle had allowed for. As soon as the battle started, I knew it would be a close-run thing to pull off, but my king had given me my orders and I was going to fulfil them. I watched that tower, _prayed_ for that damned beacon to light up, and... nothing happened. For far too long, nothing happened. And in the end, it was... too late. Far, far too late to attempt anything but to retreat, and salvage what men I could from that mess."

He turned and looked at Right. "I've done many hard things in my life. Given up... more things, more _people_ , then I would wish on any but my worst enemies. And one of the very hardest things I have ever had to do was to walk away from a battle I knew I couldn't win. Do not think that it was an _easy_ or a _convenient_ decision for me to abandon the field at Ostagar. But it was the only _sane_ thing I _could_ do. Revile me for it all you wish; given the same circumstances today, I would do the exact same thing. Or... perhaps, disobey my orders, and attempt a rescue before it became too late. Except I did that once before, and hundreds paid with their lives, that Maric might live."

"The Battle of West Hill," Right said quietly.

Loghain raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You know your history well. Better then many Fereldans do. Better then I'd have expected from a casteless Orzammar dwarf, whom I gather are not exactly known for their scholarship."

Right shrugged. "I've been studying history for months, among other subjects; I can hardly lead my group effectively, or make decisions, if I'm not familiar with the issues and people involved."

Loghain snorted. "That sounds to me like the wisdom of bitter experience. Something I am, unfortunately, not entirely unfamiliar with myself," he said, then looked down at the dishes lying abandoned in the stream. With a sigh, he lowered himself to his knees again, resumed cleaning them, then frowned.

"How is it," he asked, voice sharp with suspicion, "That Alistair came to be wearing what looked remarkably like his brother's armour at the Landsmeet?"

"It was King Cailan's armour," Right answered, simply. "Last winter, while roaming around – lost, I have to admit – we found ourselves back in the vicinity of Ostagar. We investigated the ruins..." he trailed off for a moment, then glanced over at Loghain, who was studiously concentrating on scrubbing out the stew pot. "We found the armour being worn by some of the darkspawn we killed; a piece here, a piece there, like they'd shared it out among themselves. Other things, too – Duncan's sword and dagger, still buried in the chest of the ogre that we guess must have killed him; I don't think he'd have left his weapons behind in it otherwise. Maric's sword, in a chest in the remains of Cailan's tent."

He paused, glanced again at Loghain. The man had gone very still. He decided to skip over mentioning the papers for now, wondered whatever had happened to them; he couldn't even remember now whose pack they'd last been in. He might still have them, or they could well be with Alistair.

"We found Cailan's body, too," he said softly. Decided not to describe the state it had been in when found; that would be too cruel, to this man who had known and loved the boy. "We... burned it. Scattered the ashes."

Loghain's head bowed. "Thank you for that," he said softly. "It... bothered me, that he, like his father, had left no body for a proper funeral. None we could reach, anyway," he added bitterly. He settled back on his haunches, hands hanging limply. "I said a moment ago that retreating from Ostagar was the only sane decision I could make at the time. I sometimes fear that it was the _last_ sane decision I have made since that day."

He bent forward, then rose to his feet again, clean plates and pot stacked in his hands. "Let us talk of something else. Or better yet, not talk at all."

Right nodded. "Help me dry and pack those, then."


	65. Family and Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They arrived at Orzammar in bright mid-afternoon sunlight a couple of days later. Right detailed Oghren to take the others and find a place to stay overnight – the warrior would likely have better luck then he would at renting something in the less disreputable parts of the city – while he went out and took care of some shopping he wanted to do while they were here. It was several hours later before he met up with them at Tapsters.

They arrived at Orzammar in bright mid-afternoon sunlight a couple of days later. Right detailed Oghren to take the others and find a place to stay overnight – the warrior would likely have better luck then he would at renting something in the less disreputable parts of the city – while he went out and took care of some shopping he wanted to do while they were here. It was several hours later before he met up with them at Tapsters.

Oghren was still sober, apparently having spent most of the intervening time nursing a single tankard of ale. Zevran was slouched in his seat, a glass of fine brandy in one hand, watching Loghain with a slight smile on his face. Loghain, for his part, was sitting upright in his chair, arms crossed, a disapproving look on his face and an untouched tankard of ale in front of him. Wynne was seated as far from him as she could and still be at the same table, and was sipping at a glass of white wine, watching him with obvious dislike. Sten had several empty tankards and a crumb-sprinkled plate in front of him, but appeared completely sober; Right couldn't recall ever having seen him drunk, even when he'd spent an evening matching Oghren drink for drink. He wondered if it was a case of the qunari having an enormous capacity for alcohol, a metabolism that shrugged it off entirely, or simply Sten _refusing_ to allow the intoxicant to have any effect on him.

"Where's Shale?" he asked, frowning as he looked around.

"She has gone up to the Shaperate to read up on whatever is known about the history of the golems," Wynne answered tartly. "And of the thaig where she apparently lived before becoming one."

Right nodded and slipped into the seat next to Zevran. "Find us a place to stay tonight?" he asked Oghren.

Oghren nodded. "Yeah, hostel that normally caters to unmarried warriors. Most of them have headed off to Redcliffe, so there was space free. Got us three rooms – figure one for Wynne and Shale, one for you and the elf, and the other for the rest of us."

Right nodded. Similar to the arrangements they'd used previously, except that before they acquired Wynne, Shale would have been in with the rest. Alistair had been a bit disturbed by that after learning the golem had started out as a she, but Oghren and Sten had taken it in stride; Shale had only had to threaten to crush Oghren twice before he stopped asking her prurient questions, and Sten's respect for the golem as a skilled warrior and capable companion had never wavered.

Thinking of how flustered and embarrassed Alistair had been after first learning that he'd been sharing his living space with, and blithely stripping down in front of, someone at least technically female made Right abruptly miss his friend. He wondered if their friendship would ever recover to anything like it had been before the Landsmeet. Probably not; Alistair was going to be King soon, and Right would still be a Grey Warden. Even assuming they both survived the Blight, their days of adventuring together were likely over for good, and the times they'd have reason to be in each other's company would likely be few and far between – and short.

He sighed and rose to his feet. "Show me where these rooms are," he said. "Then we should probably see about getting dinner somewhere. I have a last visit to make tomorrow before we leave, but I hope to be on the road again by mid-morning."

Oghren nodded, and everyone rose, following the two dwarfs out.

* * *

Right stood by the door for a moment, watching Zevran stacking their bags in one corner of the room. "I, ummm... have something I want to give you," he said after a moment.

Zevran looked up, his usual cheery smile on his face. "Oh? What is it?" he asked.

Right dug in one of his belt pouches, produced a small bundle, a twist of soft cloth, and held it out.

Zevran raised an eyebrow, and rose to his feet, stepping closer to accept it from Right's hand. He folded back the cloth and froze, as he saw what the cloth had concealed.

An earring, bright gold, in heavy interlinked geometric forms rather like the tattoo on Right's face; dwarven work. Small diamonds set into the deeply carved faces of the links glittered, taking fire from the nearby candles. A smooth sapphire sphere dangled from the bottommost link. It looked nothing like the earring he'd given Right, and yet there was an odd similarity between the two.

"What... is this..." he asked, voice shaken.

Right smiled at him, a smile both amused by his reaction, and strangely shy. "You said I could take the earring from you as a proposal, if I wanted to," he said softly. "This is... my response. Do you like it?"

" _Yes_ ," Zevran said, voice hoarse with emotion. "Should I... should I wear it?" he asked, reaching up to touch one unpierced ear, glancing at Right's own bare ears.

"Yes, we can help each other with the piercing," Right suggested, taking out the earring that Zevran had given him as well.

They ended up sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, the earrings glittering on the bedspread between them. Zevran sorted through their gear and turned up a needle to do the piercing with.

"Turn your head a little more so I can see what I'm doing," Right told him. Zevran made a slight hissing noise as he pierced his left ear, then remained stoically silent as he threaded the earring through and fastened it.

"How does it look?" Zevran asked, reaching up to touch the heavy weight.

Right grinned. "It looks good. Okay, my turn," he said, passing over the needle, and turned his head so that Zevran could reach his ear better. He managed not to flinch when Zevran pierced his right ear, but had to grit his teeth as he delicately put the earring in. For such a small wound it hurt an awful lot at first, before settling to a dull throbbing pain.

Zevran rose and put away the needle, returning to the bed with a flask in hand. "Antivan brandy," he said. "We should use a little to cleanse these," he added, gesturing at his own ear. "Unless you wish to have Wynne scolding us in a day or two, and needing to heal our ears for us."

Right snorted. "I'd rather not," he agreed. They applied the alcohol to their piercings, hissing and swearing at the sting, then applied a little of it internally as well.

Right grinned as he sat back and looked at Zevran. "It suits you," he said, sounding pleased, then leaned forward and kissed him. He laughed. "You taste like brandy," he said.

"So do you," Zevran pointed out. "Shall we have some more?"

"A little," Right agreed, and they passed the flask back and forth, just enjoying sitting together in amicable silence.

After a while Zevran put the flask aside, leaned forward and gave Right a lingering kiss. "Shall we?" he asked, voice low and husky.

Right nodded. Zevran grinned, and kissed him again, started kissing his way down his throat, then stopped and backed off for a moment, looking intently at Right.

"I am your man... without reservation. This I swear," he said quietly.

Right reached out and gently touched his face. "What happened to the bit about your oath of loyalty lasting until such time as I choose to release you from it?" he asked quietly.

"You cannot," Zevran said huskily. "Not any more."

Right nodded. "Then I swear it too... your man, without reservation," he said softly, and leaned forward to kiss him again.

* * *

He took Zevran, Loghain and Oghren along with him the next morning, up to the Diamond Quarter. They stopped in at the palace first to make a courtesy call on King Harrowmont. Harrowmont was clearly well-informed of recent events in Ferelden; he already knew all about the outcome of the Landsmeet, and congratulated Right on becoming a King-maker twice over. He looked curiously at Loghain, standing silent and dour in Right's train, but didn't speak to him or question his presence; word of his being recruited into the Grey Wardens had apparently also spread this far already.

After that had been taken care of, Right led the way back out of the palace and down the concourse several doors, to the Aeducan residence. A servant answered the door, gave him and his companions a questioning look.

"I'm looking for Rica and Kalah Brosca," he said. "And my nephew, Endrin Aeducan."

"Of course – come in, Warden," the servant said, stepping back and bowing. "Wait here, please."

He vanished down the hallway, leaving them to wait. A couple of minutes later, a distant yelling could be heard, words like "traitor" and "bastard" clearly audible. Right's lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Apparently his sister was still mad with him, even though her position in Orzammar had been barely changed by the death of Prince Bhelen; she was still a petty noble, after all, and still the mother of the Aeducan heir.

The distant voice trailed off into silence again. All was quiet for several minutes, then shuffling footsteps approached, and his mother Kalah walked into the room. She stopped and stood looking at him, arms crossed. "So you came back again," she said. "You never learn. Rica won't see you – she hates your guts, you know."

"Yeah, I figured as much," he said softly. "How are you, Ma?"

She shrugged. "Good enough. I actually miss the palace, a little; there was more to drink there."

She moved a few steps closer, peered intently at Right. "You're looking good," she said. "Healthy, anyway. They treating you okay, up there on the surface?"

"Well enough," he said.

She nodded, once, then looked curiously at his companions. "Introduce me to your friends," she demanded.

Right smiled. "This is Oghren, of the warrior caste," he began.

"I've heard of you. You were married to that Paragon... Branka, wasn't it?" she asked.

Oghren nodded, but chose not to say anything.

"Loghain Mac Tir. A human warrior," Right continued. "And a recent recruit to the Grey Wardens."

"Charmed," Loghain said dryly, giving her a slight bow.

Kalah looked up at him. "He's a tall one, isn't he," she said, then turned to look at the final companion.

"And this is Zevran Arainai," Right said, smiling at him as he spoke. "An Antivan Crow – that's a kind of assassin – and my friend."

Kalah looked back and forth between the two men, eyes lingering for a moment on their earrings, and snorted. "Guess I should be glad Rica's already made me a grandmother," she muttered, then gestured at Zevran. "Come closer, where I can see you – my eyes aren't as good as they used to be."

Zevran raised an eyebrow, but did as asked. Kalah gave him an intensely scrutinizing look. "You're a pretty thing," she said after a moment. "But if you're an assassin I suppose you can fight, too."

Zevran grinned. "A little," he admitted.

She snorted. "Good. Only thing Rygh has ever been good for is getting himself in trouble," she snapped, then turned back to her son. "Get out of here. You don't belong here any more," she said sharply.

"I know, Ma," Right said, gently.

She turned and walked away without another word. They let themselves out

* * *

After collecting Shale from the Shaperate, where she'd spent the night doing research with the help of some fascinated shapers, they returned to the hostel for their gear and remaining companions, and headed back out of Orzammar.

"Dare I ask where we're going to next?" Loghain asked as they walked back down the pass toward the distant highway.

"Dragon hunting," Right said.

Loghain blinked. "Did I hear you correctly? _Dragon_ hunting! Don't we have better things to do with our time?"

Right glanced up at him. "If you can think of better practise for killing an archdemon, I'd love to hear it," he said.

Loghain frowned, then sighed. "Point taken," he said, and remained silent the rest of that day.

Their southward journey was mainly peaceful, about the only exception being when they overtook a group of dwarven warriors travelling south to Redcliffe, who were being set upon by a large group of darkspawn, mainly hurlocks but including two ogres as well. Their co-ordination on taking down the first ogre was a little off – Loghain's fighting style was just enough different from Alistair's that it was taking them some time to get used to the change – but they were adjusting to it by the time they'd taken out the second ogre as well, and polished off the few remaining hurlocks with ease.

They travelled in company with the dwarves until late the next day, when they reached the point where they needed to turn off and climb up into the mountains to reach Haven. Loghain was surprised to hear about the town they were headed for; he'd never even heard of its existence before, and hauled out his map of Ferelden to have Right show him where it was to be found, carefully marking it in.

* * *

As they climbed the final winding pathway to Haven, Right was surprised to see a guard standing watch at the head of the trail. The guard seemed equally startled to see them, his mouth gaping open in surprise, then he yelled, grabbed the bow off his back, and fired at them, thankfully missing.

Loghain cursed, pulled out his own bow, and sent an arrow winging in return, with much deadlier aim; it sank into the man's unprotected throat, killing him.

"What was that about?" Loghain asked as they walked up to the corpse.

"They don't like me much here," Right said.

"Possibly because we killed pretty much the entire town the last time we were here," Zevran pointed out, grinning.

"It appears we missed one or two," Sten said, looking down at the guard's corpse.

They carefully poked around, but found no sign of the houses at this end of the village being currently inhabited, though a sizable graveyard had sprouted up behind an outbuilding where there'd been none before. They started up the path toward where the village store and the chantry were.

"Dare I ask why you saw fit to slaughter an entire village?" Loghain asked dryly.

"They attacked us; they were dragon cultists, and had already killed a number of Arl Eamon's knights who had come here in search of Andraste's ashes. We found one of the bodies. It was... not a pretty sight. I'm not sure if they butchered them as food for the dragonlings, or practised cannibalism themselves..." Right said, trailing off with a grimace. "You can fill in the picture yourself, I'm sure."

"Quite," Loghain agreed.

As they reached the clearing in front of the store they encountered a second villager, a woman, who screamed and fled at the sight of them. They proceeded cautiously, but saw no one else. Still, Right didn't begin to relax until they were well up the mountain toward the ruined temple, Haven out of sight far below, the snow-drifted path in front of them devoid of any signs that anyone had traveled along it since they'd last been this way themselves.


	66. Dragons and Drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So where is this dragon?" Loghain asked, looking around the bare space, empty but for some ruins and the rotting-egg smelling steam from bubbling pools of volcanically heated water.

"So where is this dragon?" Loghain asked, looking around the bare space, empty but for some ruins and the rotting-egg smelling steam from bubbling pools of volcanically heated water.

"There," Right said, pointing to a ridge rising high above the wind-swept plateau.

"Ah. So it is," Loghain said, and stood for a moment, eyeing the dragon sunning itself on the high ledge. "It's larger then I expected," was his only comment after several minutes of studying it.

"The archdemon is even larger," Right said quietly.

Loghain turned and looked at him. "You've seen it?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, when we were in the Deep Roads last winter. It was pulling an army of darkspawn out of the Dead Trenches."

"It was very large, and looked very nasty," Zevran agreed.

"Made me want to piss my britches," Oghren nodded. "That one up there isn't half as scary."

Loghain frowned, and studied the dragon again. "Right. Do you have any plan for dealing with this thing then? Any idea of its weaknesses?"

Right shrugged, looking frustrated. "No. I was hoping to find some information about how the Nevarran dragon hunters handled them, but found very little, and that was mainly related to their smaller forms – dragonlings and drakes. Not full-grown high dragons. We're going to have to figure it out as we go, I think."

"Ah. Learning by doing. This should be entertaining," Loghain, and glanced over at Wynne. "I'd suggest we keep our healer at a distance, if at all possible; among other things, she can hardly heal herself if the dragon knocks her out."

Wynne sniffed, but nodded agreement to his point. They kicked around ideas for a little while longer, extrapolating from their experience with smaller dragons, but really there was very little they could plan upon before actually fighting the dragon.

Finally they scattered out over the surface of the plateau, and Right strode to the centre, digging out of his pack a large convoluted horn he'd taken from Kolgrim's corpse all those months ago. Setting lips to mouthpiece, he blew a shatteringly loud blast. The dragon raised its head, roared in response, and took to the air.

It soared above them, turned a single circle while craning head downward to stare at them, then folded its wings and dropped like a stone, landing with a impact that shook the very ground, and would have shattered the bones of a lesser creature. The gust of displaced air was enough to tumble several of them off their feet, and sent Right flying. It roared, spouting flame, as those still upright closed in.

Loghain bellowed and roared at it, banging his sword noisily against his shield to gain its attention, while Sten and Oghren moved in from opposite sides, only to be blown back again as it flapped its wings enough to raise it into the air a foot or two and turn to face Loghain. It spouted flame again, forcing Loghain to crouch and hide behind his shield as much as he could, cursing as the hot breath gusted over him.

The dragon was a formidable foe; as well as its hot breath, it could use the wind from its wings to keep them back, and proved adept at knocking people away with its lashing tail and kicks of its great hindquarters. Anyone who approached too closely might also be snatched up in its jaws and shaken, like a terrier with a rat. Wynne was hard-pressed to keep them alive when that happened; plate armour could withstand the crushing force from the dragon's jaws, but the lighter armour worn by Right and Zevran gave almost no protection.

Again and again they charged in and were knocked back, gradually learning what subtle signs to watch for to send them skipping back out of danger as a tail lashed or a leg kicked toward where they had been. There wasn't a one of them uninjured when Loghain managed to jump up behind the dragon's head, holding onto its elongated scale spines with one hand while hacking at it with his sword. The dragon shrieked, tossing its head about as it tried to dislodge him, then reared upright into the air. For a moment Loghain was sent flying, but somehow as he fell managed to catch hold of a spine and land on it again, rather then plunging down to the unforgiving stone. He locked his legs around its neck, raised his sword in both hands, and plunged in into the dragon's skull. It gave a final shriek, and collapsed to the ground, the impact sending Loghain tumbling away.

He rolled to his feet, clearly winded, but with sword in hand, ready to attack again if the dragon still lived. But that final blow had done it; the dragon was dead, its foul-smelling ichor a spreading stain on the stone.

Loghain groaned and dropped down to his knees, pressing one hand to his side. Wynne hurried over, lips pursed with disapproval, and soon had him peeled out of his breastplate, her hands glowing with healing energies as she fixed the worst of the damage he'd taken in the fight; cracked ribs and torn muscles, she tartly informed him. Once he'd been taken care of she made the rounds of the remainder of the group, doing what she could for all of them.

They decided to camp right there, being too tired to move on. They had no wood for a fire, but Zevran improvised a meal heated in a pot half-submerged in one of the smaller hot pools, which were giving off enough heat that they didn't need to worry about freezing, anyway.

They were sitting around eating when Right realized something his earlier concentration on the dragon had prevented him from noticing. "It's gone," he exclaimed, sitting upright, staring at the far side of the plateau.

"What's gone?" Loghain asked.

"The entrance to the Gauntlet, where the Urn of Sacred Ashes was – it was right over there," he said, gesturing with his bread and melted cheese to a small cut in the mountainside that passed directly under the ledge where the dragon had been.

Nothing would do but they all go over and take a look. Where the carved entranceway had been was a tumble of rock, a massive slide that looked like it had been there for ages, judging by the lichen and weathering.

Zevran grinned. "I guess we do not need to worry about Brother Genitivi bringing chantry scholars here," he pointed out. "The Urn seems capable of defending itself from casual intruders."

Right nodded agreement. "They'll still be excited about that temple complex, I'm sure," he said. "But I'm glad they won't be able to disturb the Urn itself."

* * *

They returned to their fire, and spent the rest of the evening talking about the fight with the dragon; what had worked, what hadn't, what had seemed to be its weak spots.

Shale shook her head ponderously over her own part in the fight. "I was of little use to it," she said. "I could withstand the dragon's breath, but am not nimble enough to dodge its blows, and standing back and throwing rocks at the beast seemed more likely to damage it and its companions then to damage the dragon. As enjoyable as the thought of accidentally squishing the painted elf is, I doubt that would improve the fight."

Zevran and Right had managed to do reasonable amounts of damage once they got used to dodging the legs and tail and staying well back from the dangerous jaws, while Sten, Oghren and Loghain had all fared well in the fight as well. Stench, on the other hand, was still limping from the injuries that had taken him out early in the fight; he lacked the armour of the warriors and was small and light enough that he'd been sent flying every time the dragon flapped its wings.

Wynne was also displeased about her performance in the battle; while her healing spells had been of some use in the early stages while they were learning to combat the dragon, by the end of the fight they hadn't been much needed, and her combat magic had proven almost useless on the dragon; its natural resistance to such was just too high for her to be very effective against it. She suspected it would be even worse against the archdemon itself.

"Well, at least this detour has done what it was supposed to do," Right said tiredly. "We've all got a much better idea now of how to handle fighting the archdemon, anyway. Tomorrow we're off to Redcliffe."

* * *

Over the next few days of travel, Right noticed a change in Loghain. It was fairly subtle, but the man seemed less... haunted. He walked with more assurance, took part in conversations a little more frequently, spent more time looking around at the world around them instead of lost in his own thoughts. He even spent some time talking to Sten one day, drawing the giant out into a discussion of two handed weapon technique.

He also began taking part in the sparring sessions which Right had resumed having with his companions since they'd left Denerim. He proved equally able as a fighter and as a teacher in those, and knew quite a lot of counters and dirty tricks that the rest of them had never encountered before.

More and more, Right found himself wanting to like the man, and thinking it was a pity that the events of the year before had placed Loghain and the Grey Wardens on opposing sides.

* * *

They should reach Redcliffe sometime tomorrow, if nothing happened to delay their travel. They hadn't run into any problems since leaving Haven, however – the groups of dwarven warriors travelling before them had left the road swept clean of darkspawn and bandits both.

Right walked up a low hill near camp and settled down on a fallen log at the top, and sat staring out into the darkness, thinking of the events of the past year, and what a vast difference they had made in him. He was a very different dwarf then the crude thug who'd been one of Beraht's enforcers. In the last year his fighting skills had doubled, then redoubled again. He'd crammed a vast amount of knowledge into his skull, as well, learning more about the world outside Orzammar in any given week then he had in his entire life before. Not just book learning either, but the sort of things you only learn by tramping over the ground, and meeting the people.

A twig snapped nearby, and Loghain walked out of the bushes, joining him on the log. Deliberately snapped, he expected; outside of his armour the warrior moved with all the silence and deadly grace that Zevran did. But he was also smart enough to know when to make noise, so as to avoid startling others.

"I want to thank you," Loghain said after sitting in silence for a minute.

"For what?"

"For ridding me of that bloodthirsty weasel, Rendon Howe," Loghain said.

Right raised an eyebrow. "You seemed put out with me at the Landsmeet for having murdered him, as you put it."

Loghain snorted. "Please. He was my ally; the lords would have expected no less. And I could hardly applaud your actions when I was trying to turn people against you," he said. He picked up a twig and sketched in the dirt with it at his feet for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. "I think one of my biggest regrets will always be that I didn't slit his throat myself when I returned from Ostagar, and found out what he'd been up to – the slaying of the Cousland family being just one of the better-known examples," he added, distaste evident in his voice.

"Many of my decisions this past year would have been very... different, if not for his influence," he continued after a moment. "Better, I would hope. But he was my only ally, and I was in desperate need of any help I could get, if it would only save Ferelden."

He suddenly stopped his idle sketching, broke the twig in fragments and flung them away. "I find myself wondering how many potential allies I had that he made sure never reached me," he added bitterly. "The man was nothing if not ambitious."

Right bit his lip for a moment. "I... suspect you're right about that," he said as neutrally as he could. "Were you aware that he had Vaughan Kendalls locked up in his own dungeon? And was torturing Oswyn, the son of Bann Sighard?"

Loghain's lips pressed together in a thin line for a moment. "No, I wasn't," he answered in clipped tones, then frowned. "What possible reason could he have for torturing Sighard's son..."

"I suspect it was for his personal pleasure," Right told him. "He'd captured the young man after Oswyn started questioning the disappearance of his milk-brother, a veteran of Ostagar. Just locking him up would have been sufficient to deal with that. _Torturing_ him was excessive."

Loghain nodded, scowling. "And you say he also had Bann Vaughan imprisoned? What happened to him?"

Right shrugged. "I slit his throat for him."

Loghain turned and stared at him. "You _what_!" he demanded.

"He was Rendon Howe writ small," Right said calmly. "A nasty little ferret to Howe's bloodthirsty weasel. I think the only thing that prevented them from being allies and wrecking even worse havoc then Howe did alone was that Vaughan had something Howe wanted. I didn't think Ferelden needed a second Howe," he said grimly. "Not after what I'd already seen in the dungeons, and heard of Vaughan's character from a prisoner that had been there since before Howe took over. Locking Vaughan up may well have been the one unintentional good deed Howe did this past year."

Right frowned off into the darkness for a minute, then turned to Loghain. "Is it true you and Howe were planning to kill Anora, and frame the murder on either the Grey Wardens or Arl Eamon?" he asked.

" _ **WHAT!**_ " Loghain roared, flushing almost purple with rage.

"That's the story her maid, Erlina, brought to us at the Arl's estate. That Howe was holding Anora, and had let slip that the pair of you were considering killing her for political advantage," Right explained coolly.

The string of vile curses, followed by exacting descriptions of just what tortures Loghain would have liked to visit on Howe if he'd yet lived, were impressive. It was several minutes before he finally wound down and went silent again, scowling in thought. Finally he turned to look at Right. "Is _this_ what you meant at the Landsmeet when you said you'd been protecting my own daughter from me?" he demanded.

"Yes. Though in retrospect I don't think Howe would really have killed her. He certainly had ambitions to be the power behind the throne – with her in his hands, how hard would have been for him to become the power _on_ the throne instead? Especially if he found a way to dispose of you without losing his own power in the process."

That prompted another outburst from Loghain. As he was winding down, Zevran appeared out of the shadows, a plump wineskin swinging from one hand. "I've been taking notes," he said blithely. "That bit with the glass splinters and salted vinegar sounds particularly nasty. Careful with this, it's some of Oghren's White Shear, not wine," he added as he dangled the wineskin in front of Loghain.

Loghain snarled and grabbed the skin, removing the stopple and squirting a sizable portion into his mouth, swallowing it without even coughing before handing the skin to Right, who took a much smaller drink of it.

"Oghren let you walk off with his White Shear?" Right asked, raising his eyebrows.

Zevran grinned. "I neglected to ask. Besides, he doesn't need so much, now that he's drinking so much less."

"A dwarf? Drinking less? Is that even possible?" Loghain blurted, the strong drink already having an effect on his control of his tongue.

Zevran laughed. "Right won't let him come along on our little adventures when he is drunk," he explained. "And fighting is always more fun then drinking."

Loghain snorted, and reclaimed the skin for another drink. Zevran sat down cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against Right's legs.

"You're that assassin Howe had me hire, aren't you?" Loghain asked, eyeing him sourly.

Zevran grinned and nodded in response.

Loghain snorted again. "I don't suppose the Crows give refunds when their men switch sides? As I recall, hiring you was rather dreadfully expensive."

"Unfortunately not. Though they'll still try and take it out of my hide any time they catch up to me," Zevran said.

"Good thing you have friends who'd prefer that your hide stay in one piece," Right pointed out fondly.

"Yes. And hopefully it will be a while yet before they realize Taliesen failed, and that I am still at large," Zevran agreed. "I would prefer not to be dodging yet more Crows on our way to kill the archdemon."

Loghain gave him a puzzled look. "The Crows are trying to kill you?"

Zevran nodded. "Both of us, really. Our dear friend Right because the contract on him is still open, and myself because our retirement package is _garbage_ \- the only way to leave the Crows is as a dead Crow. As you can see I am rather distressingly still alive. Distressing to them, that is, I am quite pleased at still being alive myself. At some point the Crows will hopefully get tired of the truly astonishing numbers of bodies we leave behind us every time they try to kill us, and decide that killing us is more trouble then its worth."

Loghain frowned. "Just how many Crows have you killed?" he asked.

Zevran's forehead creased in thought. "Well, if you count the trainees and junior Crows I had along for that very poorly planned ambush, it was... let me think... at least 20 by now, isn't it?" he asked Right.

Right shrugged. "About that, yes. I think we killed at least twelve when Taliesen tried, anyway, and you had... what, seven or eight? And I suspect a few of those bandits we've encountered over the past year were more then just bandits, too; some of them fought too well."

"Twelve against... what, seven of you?" Loghain asked, thinking the odds weren't too bad, even if it had been Crows.

Zevran shook his head. "Twelve against _two_ ," he corrected.

"Three, you're forgetting we had the dog along," Right corrected him in turn.

"Twelve against _three_ ," Loghain said. "And yet they _didn't_ manage to kill you!"

Zevran chuckled, and took another swig from the wineskin. "We, my friend, are _ridiculously awesome_ ," he solemnly informed Loghain.

Right nodded, reclaiming the skin for another drink as well. "That wasn't even the worst fight I've been in, either. It's too bad you weren't available to go with Alistair and I the next night, Zev – that was when Alistair and I – and Stench! - fought in to Howe's estate and freed Anora. The Crows were at least only dressed in light armour; at the estate we were up against well-armoured guards the whole way through. I think we had to kill about thirty or forty of them just to get to where Anora was, and then I forget how many more down in the dungeons."

Loghain's frown deepened. He's heard from Ser Cauthrien about what a blood-bath the Arl of Denerim's estate had been after she'd arrested the pair of Grey Wardens there; that all the damage had been done by two men and one mabari had been a detail no one had thought to mention. Possibly because none of them had believed it _had_ been done by such low numbers. But as he considered it, he could see how it might be feasible, especially if the men in question made use of the terrain – or rather, the architecture in this case – so their enemies could only come at them a few at a time. And were as talented at fighting as Right and his companions all seemed to be.

Somehow the three of them ended up sitting on that hilltop for several hours after that, trading stories about memorable fights they'd been in, the wineskin going round and round. Right's two battles versus the entire Dust Town carta, Zevran's solo foray into Fort Drakon to rescue him and Alistair, Loghain's rescue by Rowan after decoying an entire army away from the rebel camp, and many other similar stories. They had to help each other walk when they decided it was time to return down to their camp; between the three of them they'd emptied the skin, and their legs no longer wanted to move in correct synchronization.

Loghain had vague memories of _singing_ as they stumbled their way back down the hill, though he couldn't have said later _what_ they'd been singing. He wasn't even sure if they were all on the same tune. He had an impression of Wynne sitting up and scowling in disapproval at them as they staggered into the clearing, the elf and dwarf dropping him somewhere near the fire before heading off to their own bedroll.

He also had the soundest night's sleep he'd had since before Ostagar, even the darkspawn dreams leaving him alone for once. It almost made it worth waking up to the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life.


	67. Muster at Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even before they reached Redcliffe, they could tell that something there was very wrong. Columns of smoke were rising, dark stains against the sunny autumn sky. As they hurried down the final slope to the outskirts of town, they could see flames rising from the buildings further down the hill, hear distant sounds of battle. A cart was overturned near the bridge, a couple of slaughtered oxen lying in the road before it.

Even before they reached Redcliffe, they could tell that something there was very wrong. Columns of smoke were rising, dark stains against the sunny autumn sky. As they hurried down the final slope to the outskirts of town, they could see flames rising from the buildings further down the hill, hear distant sounds of battle. A cart was overturned near the bridge, a couple of slaughtered oxen lying in the road before it.

As they hurried over the bridge, a man appeared, fleeing up the hill toward them. He stopped and gaped as he spotted them, then hurried over.

"It's... it's you! The Grey Warden! Andraste's mercy that you got here when you did! I thought for sure those monsters were going to get me!" he exclaimed, looking fearfully over his shoulder.

"What's happened? Where is everyone?" Right asked.

"They all fled to the castle this morning, before the darkspawn arrived. I thought I could get to my home and back before they arrived, but it took me too long. What a relief you arrived."

"Are there more darkspawn at the castle?"

"By now yes, they'd have had time to arrive at the castle walls. I'm going to get out of here before any more of those things arrive. Thank you again!" he exclaimed, and hurried past them, heading away up the road they'd just come down.

He was only just passing out of sight when a group of hurlocks came running up the hill toward Right and his group, an entire pack of blight wolves at their heels. One hurlock immediately stopped where it was and started casting spells; an emissary. With the wolves between then and him, they couldn't take him out right away, and took considerable damage before Zevran and Stench were able to break free from the melee and take him down.

"Check the town for any more survivors first, then the castle," Right said grimly.

The path down to the town was swarming with darkspawn, mainly hurlocks, and the town itself was overrun with hurlocks, genlocks and a pair of ogres. It was grim work clearing them out. They saw a few bodies here and there, but otherwise no sign of the townspeople; Right could only hope that the man they'd encountered had been right, and most of them had already escaped to the castle.

They headed there next themselves, hurrying over the long bridge from shore to the island, only to find the portcullis raised and the courtyard swarming with darkspawn. Even as they killed the ones already there, they heard howls and heavy footsteps from behind them, and turned to find another group of darkspawn charging across the bridge toward them, followed by one of the largest ogres Right had ever seen. Somehow they got them all dead.

A soldier clattered down the stairs and stopped in front of them. "My lord! You're here! Thank goodness!" he exclaimed.

"What's happened here?" Loghain demanded.

The man gave him a nervous look, then turned back to Right. "I don't rightly know. Riordan of the Grey Wardens arrived this morning just ahead of the darkspawn. I was told that he has urgent news, and to send out patrols to watch for your arrival. Then we were attacked..."

Right frowned. "Are Arl Eamon, and Anora and Alistair all right?" he asked. "Did any darkspawn get inside?"

The soldier nodded. "They're all inside with Riordan. Some darkspawn made it in, but we managed to kill them and close the doors. We were organizing to retake the courtyard when you and your companions arrived. You seem to have taken care of most of them out here. That's... rather remarkable, really..." he trailed off, then pulled himself back together. "Shall I take you inside?"

"Sure, lead the way," Right answered.

They reached the great hall to find it packed with people, including a number of guards and dwarfs. The low platform at the far end of the hall was crowded with more guards, along with Riordan, Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan, Queen Anora, and Alistair. For a moment Alistair looked relived to see them, then he spotted Loghain among their group and his face hardened. He bent down and whispered something to Anora, then turned and left the room.

Riordan's face lit up as they approached. "It is a relief to see you unharmed. And you as well, Loghain."

"Yes. What a pleasure to see you again," Loghain said dryly, sounding not at all pleased. Right guessed the man's strong Orlesian accent was grating on his nerves.

Riordan and Eamon quickly brought them up to speed on the latest developments; the darkspawn that had attacked Redcliffe were but a tiny part of the horde, the main body of it was even now marching on Denerim, led by the archdemon. At the speed they were moving, there was no chance that the army gathered at Redcliffe could catch up to them shy of the city itself. Messages had been sent ahead to Denerim, but there was no time or way to evacuate it before the horde arrived, and not nearly enough soldiers there to defend it against the numbers marching against them.

Worse, they couldn't even march at once themselves; the army was in disarray after the unexpected darkspawn attack, and it would take the remainder of the day to sort them out and prepare for a forced march to Denerim. The next morning was the soonest they could move.

Riordan asked Right and Loghain to speak with him later, before retiring for the night, then the group of them split up to see what they could do to speed the reorganization of the army and make plans for their march.

* * *

Right spent most of the day speaking to the leaders of the various factions of the army he'd recruited; the dwarfs were unhappy about being up on the surface for so long, the elves were unhappy about the poor treatment they'd received from their human allies since their arrival – they didn't even have a representative on Arl Eamon's planning council, an oversight Right had to hunt him down and insist be rectified. The mages were unhappy about how restrictive their templar guardians were being, the templars were apparently more frightened by the idea that the mages might flee for the hills at the first chance they got then of the very real danger of the darkspawn horde.

He wished he had time to hunt down and speak to Alistair, but there were just too many other demands on his time and attention, especially when Alistair seemed to be actively avoiding him; he only caught a single glimpse of him all day, while too busy calming down an overly excited templar to go chasing after his friend.

By the time he retired upstairs after dinner, all he really wanted to do was seek out his own bed and get a good night's sleep in before they all had to get up early and start the march to Denerim. But first, he reminded himself, he needed to go see what Riordan wanted.

Loghain trailing along behind him, as he had all day, he sought out the senior Grey Warden.

"You are both here. Good," Riordan said as he let the two into his room, and closed the door behind them. "You are new to the Grey Wardens, and you may not have been told how an archdemon is slain. I need to know if that is so."

"It is, indeed. I, for one, am most intrigued to hear this," Loghain said dryly.

Riordan sighed tiredly. "So it is true. Duncan had not yet told you. I had simply assumed... Tell me, have you ever wondered _why_ the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the darkspawn?"

"I assume it has something to do with the taint in us," Right answered.

Riordan nodded, looking pleased. "That is exactly what it involves. The archdemon may be slain as any other darkspawn, but should any other than a Grey Warden do the slaying, it will not be enough. The essence of the beast will pass through the taint to the nearest darkspawn and will be reborn anew in that body. The dragon is thus all but immortal. But if the archdemon is slain by a Grey Warden... its essence travels into the Grey Warden, instead."

"And... what happens to the Grey Warden?" Right asked warily.

Riordan shrugged. "A darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel, but a Grey Warden is not. The essence of the archdemon is destroyed... and so is the Grey Warden."

"The Grey Warden that kills the archdemon perishes." Loghain stated, not quite a question, yet still seeking confirmation.

"Yes. Without the archdemon, the Blight ends. It is the only way," Riordan confirmed.

Loghain frowned. "Why is this such a secret? Why doesn't everyone know this?"

"We keep it secret for the same reason the Joining is kept secret. Who would become a Grey Warden if they knew the end that might await them? And yet there _must_ be Grey Wardens. Without us, there is no hope."

Loghain snorted, his opinion on that reasoning clearly a poor one. Right found he agreed.

"So it's up to the three of us to kill this thing." Right said.

Riordan nodded. "In Blights past, when the time came the eldest of the Grey Wardens would decide which amongst them would take that final blow. If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer. But if I fail, the deed falls on you. The Blight must be stopped now or it will destroy all of Ferelden before the rest of the Grey Wardens can assemble. Remember that. But enough. There will be much to do tomorrow and little enough time to rest before it. I will let you return to your rooms."

* * *

Right came to an abrupt stop just inside the door of his own room. There was someone already there, standing gazing into the fire. He was still trying to place her when she spoke, and he abruptly realized she was that witch, Flemeth's daughter, who had guided him and Alistair to Lothering the year before.

"Do not be alarmed. It is only I, Morrigan," she said calmly.

"How did you get in here?" he asked suspiciously.

"No one pays attention to animals. 'Twas far too easy to sneak in here," she said calmly, turning to look at him. "I said that you and I were not yet done, and we are not. I have watched you, and now it is time we speak again. I have a plan, you see. A way out. The loop in your hole. I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. I have come to tell you this does not need to be."

As she spoke, she took a few steps closer to him. Right frowned; he hadn't much cared for her the year before, he certainly didn't like her now that she'd shown up unexpectedly in his room. "And how do you know about this?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "I know a great many things. How I know is not quite as important as what I am offering you, however. I offer a way out. A way out for all the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice. A ritual...performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night."

"Nothing comes without a price," he said coldly, feeling his hostility toward her increasing as she piled enigmatic phrase on enigmatic phrase.

"Perhaps. But that price need not be so unbearable, especially if there is much to be gained. All I ask is that you listen to what I have to offer, nothing more."

Right shook his head. "I do not need to hear any more. The answer is no," he told her sharply.

"You are a fool!" she snapped angrily. "Fare you well, Grey Warden. Should you live past the morrow, seek me out at your own peril."

She pushed past him. He turned, in time to catch a flash of grey-furred haunches and tail as she took the form of a wolf and vanished down the hallway.

He closed and bolted the door before starting to strip out of his armour and prepare for bed. He was just turning back the sheets when there was a scratching at the door. "Yes?" he called.

"It's me," he heard Zevran call back softly. He grinned and opened the door, pulling the elf into the room and kissing him soundly before closing and bolting the door again. "How'd you get past all the guards?" he asked curiously.

Zevran grinned, shrugged. "They are guarding the stairs, not the windows," he said complacently. "Besides, there is no guard good enough to keep me away from your side."

Right smiled. "I just hope you're not too disappointed... I'm too tired to do anything but sleep tonight," he confessed.

Zevran made a _tsk_ ing sound. "What a waste of an excellent bed, especially when it may be days before we find ourselves in one as comfortable again," he said. "But come, let me give you a massage. Either you will fall asleep, or you will find you have some energy to spare after all and _then_ you will fall asleep," he said, grinning.

Right laughed softly and gave in. And had just enough energy after all.


	68. To the Gates of Denerim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right could feel Loghain at his back, practically vibrating with frustration over how slowly the march was starting off. The courtyard of the castle was chaos; too many people crammed into too small a space trying to do too many things at once.

Right could feel Loghain at his back, practically vibrating with frustration over how slowly the march was starting off. The courtyard of the castle was chaos; too many people crammed into too small a space trying to do too many things at once.

Right glanced across the courtyard, to where he could see Alistair and Anora standing side-by-side, listening to Arl Eamon going on about something. Alistair was again in Cailan's gold-washed armour, Anora in a highly decorated set of red steel. Arl Eamon was also in red steel, a much more utilitarian set that he wore with the same ease as the fine clothing he usually dressed in.

"I hope your daughter isn't planning to fight," he muttered to Loghain.

Loghain snorted, relaxed slightly. "No. Though if a fight comes to her, she is at least able to defend herself; she is an adequate warrior. Or at least, she was when she was younger; I don't know how well she's kept up her skills since her teens. But she knows which end of a weapon to hold, and has some idea of what to do with the dangerous bits," he said dryly.

"Good," Right said. He wished he could go over and talk to Alistair, but his friend was looking harassed enough as it was, and this was hardly a good time for it. He wondered if there would be any good time between now and reaching Denerim. Probably not, since he and his companions would be in the vanguard of the army, while Alistair would be among those travelling under guard in the rear; he, Anora and Eamon were among those considered too valuable to risk in the forefront.

Alistair looked up just then, and noticed the group of them. By the brief look of longing that flashed across his face as he looked at each of them in turn, Right knew he wished he was over here, with them, instead of over there, with Anora and Eamon. Alistair frowned just slightly as his eyes rested for a moment on Loghain, then he finally met Right's eyes. A slight smile twitched the corners of his lips, and he mouthed something... "good luck", it looked like.

Right nodded in acknowledgement. Alistair returned his attention to whatever it was Eamon was saying to him and Anora. "Come on, let's get a move on," Right said, sadly certain that there'd be no chance for a better good-bye then that.

They edged around to the bridge, and crossed over to the shore. It was as chaotic over there as the castle courtyard had been, though at least in a considerably more organized fashion, as the bands and troops of soldiers, dwarfs, elves, and mages who'd been encamped in the hills around Redcliffe pulled up stakes and started moving. Even more would still be moving out from the Circle's tower, the Brecilian forest and Orzammar, headed to a secondary muster closer to Denerim since word of the end of the civil war spread. They would be a formidable army once it all met up.

Right just hoped it would be formidable enough.

* * *

Denerim was burning. Not all of it, but enough gouts of flame and thick plumes of dark smoke rose into the air that it was clear that the darkspawn horde had already overrun most of the city. Even here, still well outside the city, the sounds of distant combat raging on could be heard, and the archdemon could be glimpsed circling overhead, occasionally diving down to take part in the battles raging below it.

Anora insisted on giving a rallying speech to the troops before they charged; she did an adequate job at it, though Right thought the speech would have done better if it had been less disorganized in delivery, focused more on Ferelden and its people and history of resistance to invasion instead of on him and the Grey Wardens, and given by a more impressively martial figure. For all that she was a striking figure in armour, she was also slight – barely taller then an elf – and didn't carry herself like a true warrior would.

"Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde! Gaze upon them now, but fear them not! The man you see beside me is a dwarf, raised to the ranks of the Grey Wardens! This is not his home, and yet he still fights with honour and passion! He has survived despite the odds, and without him, none of us would be here! Today, we save Denerim! Today, we avenge the death of my husband, your King Cailan! But most of all, today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember and honour their sacrifice! For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!"

The soldiers roared, and began their charge, Anora dropping back to one side, looking flushed with the success of her speech. Right nodded farewell to her, then gathered up his group by eye and headed out, soon catching up with the front elements of the army.

* * *

The darkspawn at the gates were so busy tormenting captives that they didn't notice the approaching army until they were almost within bowshot distance, but once they did notice them, they ruthlessly slaughtered the guards already in their hands before turning to face the oncoming army.

There were many darkspawn crammed around and inside the gates, but they by and large seemed to be the weakest of their kind, poorly armed and armoured, and with little co-ordination between the various groups of them. Right guessed that the stronger, better-trained darkspawn were likelier the ones further in, leading the assault on the city.

For all their numbers, the darkspawn here were easily dealt with, the main danger they posed to the army being that of their poisonous blood. But the soldiers of all kinds had been well-drilled in what to do to minimize the risk, and Right had some hope that they wouldn't loose too many to the taint.

He and his companions had ended up scattered all over the gate area during that initial fight, but once the gates were in the control of the army, they reassembled in the middle, where Riordan was waiting to speak to Right and Loghain.

"We've managed to clear the gates already. We're doing better than I hoped," Riordan said.

Several of the companions nodded agreement. "What are we to do now, Riordan? You have a plan, I assume?" Wynne asked.

Riordan nodded. "The army will not last long if the archdemon turns its attention on them, so we'll need to move quickly to reach it. I suggest taking Loghain and no more than two others with you into the city. Anyone you don't bring with you can remain here to prevent more darkspawn from entering Denerim on our tails."

"Why so small a group?" Right asked, frowning. He'd assumed he'd have his full complement of companions along for this battle; their practise against the mountaintop dragon had relied on it.

"A large group is only going to draw attention. And I think I know what we need to do. We're going to need to reach a high point in the city... I'm thinking the top of Fort Drakon might work."

"You want to draw the dragon's attention, I take it?" Loghain asked, frowning thoughtfully.

Riordan nodded. "We have little choice, though I warn you that as soon as we engage the beast it will call all its generals to help it. I can sense two generals in Denerim. You may wish to seek them out before going to Fort Drakon."

"A wise suggestion. Slaying those generals will throw chaos into the darkspawn ranks and perhaps save some lives," Wynne agreed.

"It may also waste resources trying to find them. The decision is up to you," Riordan said, looking back to Right.

Right nodded. "And what will you be doing?" he asked.

"I will be trying to reach the archdemon. With any luck I will find it before you do," Riordan said. "Now, who do you wish to take with you into the city?"

Right frowned in thought, but in the end the decision was an easy one. "Loghain. Zevran." he said, nodding at each companion in turn. Paused in thought a moment as they stepped to his side, then nodded a final time. "Oghren."

Riordan nodded solemnly. "Fair enough," he said. "Anyone else will need to remain here and assist in keeping more darkspawn from coming in the gates behind us. Who will lead them?"

"Sten would be suitable."

"Good. That should be sufficient," Riordan said, then took a deep breath, and smiled at all of them. "Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you face now. May the Maker watch over you," he said, then turned and moved off toward the smashed open gates.

Right looked at his companions, already separated into two groups; those going with him, and those being left behind. To his surprise, it was Wynne that first stepped forward to say a few words to him – what might well be their final words, depending on how the fight with the day's battle went.

"So this is it then. All that we've been through has led up to this," she said, smiling with surprising fondness at him. "Whatever happens now... to either of us, know that I am proud – infinitely proud – to have called you friend. Farewell, and may the Maker watch over you."

She stepped aside, and Shale moved forward. "So the archdemon is next, is it? Part of me is glad that it has decided to leave me here at the gate, but the other part is... apprehensive? I would almost say that I feel concern for something other than myself, even maybe for a soft, squishy companion... but that would be silly, wouldn't it?"

Right smiled warmly at the golem. "It's scandalous to even consider the notion," he solemnly agreed.

"I know! Please do not tell anyone. I doubt I could blush, but it would be _so_ awkward," Shale said, and while her face was incapable of smiling, there was an unusual _warmth_ to her voice that made his think she would have if she could. "And... do _try_ not to get swallowed whole. If the beast were to fly about afterwards and poop it out, irony would dictate that it would land on me. I couldn't take it. Well, then. I suppose this is it? Have fun storming the castle."

Shale reached out and touched his shoulder with surprising delicacy for several tons of mobile stone, then gave way to Sten.

"Are you ready, kadan?" Sten asked sternly. "We have reached the battlefield at last. The arishok asked, 'What is the Blight?' I stand here looking into its eyes, and still I have no answer for him. But perhaps you do. _You_ have carried us this far. Do not doubt that."

Right nodded, reached out and clasped forearms with the qunari. "Keep the darkspawn off our backs for me, eh?" he said. Sten nodded solemnly before returning to stand with Wynne and Shale.

Stench looked at him, and whined worriedly. "Don't worry, boy. I'll be back," Right said gently. "You stay here with Sten."

Stench lowered his head, and went over to stand by Sten, ears and tail at half mast.

Right turned and looked at those who'd be accompanying him. "It will be an honour to fight with you by my side," he told the three of them.

Oghren snorted, then spoke softly, his voice intense. "Honour? Nobody's looked at me and seen honour in a long time, Warden. You took in a drunken disgrace of an Orzammar warrior. You gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep going. You helped me find the one woman in the sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could have someone new. I owe you a lot, Warden. I consider it a fine honour to die for you and your cause."

"Allow me to say that it has been a pleasure, my friend. Assassinating you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me," Zevran said, smiling warmly at Right. "By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it."

"Let's get this over with, then. There is little time to waste," Loghain pointed out, frowning in the direction Riordan had gone.

Right nodded, and led the way toward the gates. The gathered soldiers began to cheer and clap as the small group moved forward, then started to chant. "Grey Warden! The Grey Wardens! For Ferelden! Grey Wardens!" he heard over and over again, as they walked forward. As they neared the shattered gate they broke into a trot.

He heard an excited bark, and looked down to find Stench had abandoned Sten's side and now ran in their midst. For a moment he considered sending the hound back, then decided against it; the mabari had been in involved this battle since Ostagar, his longest-serving companion apart from the now-absent Alistair. Surely the dog had earned the right to be in it with him to the bitter end if the mabari so wished. "Glad to have you along," he quietly told the hound as they jogged through the gate.

Loghain glanced down as well. He snorted, but a slight smile touched his lips. "It wouldn't be a proper Ferelden battle without a war hound somewhere in it," he observed dryly.


	69. The Battle for Denerim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marketplace was nearly unrecognizable, a maze of fallen and burning buildings that bore little resemblance to the bustling place they'd left so few weeks before. It was also overrun by more ogres then they'd ever seen gathered in a single place, backed up by several genlock mages. They had plenty of experience in taking out ogres, but those had always been only one, perhaps two at a time. Here they came in two and threes, and they had to fight many at once, plus the genlocks. Their practised moves took out one ogre after another. Again, and again, while Stench distracted and knocked over and worried at the mages.

The marketplace was nearly unrecognizable, a maze of fallen and burning buildings that bore little resemblance to the bustling place they'd left so few weeks before. It was also overrun by more ogres then they'd ever seen gathered in a single place, backed up by several genlock mages. They had plenty of experience in taking out ogres, but those had always been only one, perhaps two at a time. Here they came in two and threes, and they had to fight many at once, plus the genlocks. Their practised moves took out one ogre after another. Again, and again, while Stench distracted and knocked over and worried at the mages.

As they neared the chantry, a heavily armoured hurlock strode out of its courtyard, mouth opening in a wordless roar of hatred, more ogres coming running to its defence. Right hissed at the sizzle its presence sent along his nerves; short of their one brief glimpse of the archdemon so long ago, it was the strongest he'd ever felt the presence of a darkspawn; not just a tingling, but a horrible fierce burning itch, worsening as it drew closer. This must be one of the generals Riordan had referred to.

Then it lifted its hands and began to cast some spell, dark energies gathering around its hands. "Get the hurlock first!" Loghain grated out the order while Right was still gasping for breath, have been knocked off his feet by a charging ogre in his distraction at the general's approach. With grim determination the party turned away from the ogres to close in on the hurlock, having to duck and dodge the punishing blows and ramming attacks of the brutes while they fought to take down the greater danger.

For a fleeting moment Right wished they had some of the army with them, but they'd quickly outdistanced them after leaving the gates; it was just him and his companions here.

Again and again they hacked or slashed or stabbed at the hurlock, again and again its armour or its magics saved it from a killing blow. Stench went flying through the air, landing with a pained yelp, after one of the ogres connected a pretty solid kick with the hound's ribs. A second ogre snatched up Oghren, shaking him like a doll, his armour making distressing creaking noises as it clenched its massive fist, trying to crush him. Right cursed, then managed to land a stunning blow on the general. That was all the break they needed to finally kill the thing, after which they were free to concentrate on mopping up the remaining ogres.

The last of the oversized darkspawn finally fell, and they took a few minutes to quickly assess their injuries, and do what they could to treat them. Thankfully they'd restocked on poultices and bandages before leaving Redcliffe; they were as well-supplied as they could be for the battle. Even Stench quickly recovered from the kick he'd taken, his spirits recovering quickly once he'd been fed a comforting treat.

Once they'd caught their breath they moved on again, hurrying to the nearby alienage, where Right and Loghain's senses placed the next major clot of darkspawn.

They entered the area to find a small group of desperate elves preparing to defend their homes and families; if they'd been Dalish elves Right might have believed they'd have a reasonably chance at survival with their bows and arrows, but these are city elves; their weapons are not a part of their daily lives, their opportunities to use them few and far between, and likely having been rarer yet in the last year as Howe ruthlessly cracked down on the elves. Right ordered the elves off the street; he'd rather not have to worry about protecting them from the darkspawn, not in a battle where he could ill-afford any distractions.

"I don't question your courage," he told the distraught red-headed elven girl he remembered from before. Shianni, that was her name. "But it's better if you protect your homes and people from inside, then being out here on the street; the fewer other people we have to worry about, the less distraction it will be to my group. If any darkspawn get past us, they'll only be able to come at you one or two at a time if you can hold the doors against them. Gather everyone in a couple of the more solidly built buildings if you can..."

"We've done that," she interrupted. Her hands were shaking slightly but she seemed to be mastering her fears. "That big warehouse the slavers were using – it's mostly stone, and we thought we could escape by the river if we really had to, though it'll be hard... only a few of us can swim well."

Right nodded and smiled at her. "That's exactly the right thing to have done," he told her. "Good planning. If you place some of your archers in windows overlooking that alley between it and the tenement building, then it will be even harder for any darkspawn to reach you."

"Remember that their blood is a deadly poison," Zevran added. "A slow acting one, but you must wash it from your skin the first moment you can spare, and avoid getting it in cuts, or swallowing any. "

"Swallowing any?" Shianni asked, looking appalled.

Zevran gave her a grin that he probably meant to be reassuring. "Battle tends not to be neat, my dear... things spatter."

"Oh," she said, sounding faint.

A group of elven archers ran toward them from the nearby gate. "They're breaking through!" one called out.

"Go," Right ordered Shianni. She nodded, gathered up her small band of archers, and hurried off.

Loghain was already striding in the direction of the gate, drawing his sword, Oghren on his heels. Right and Zevran fell into step to either side, Stench running ahead to bark furiously through the gate at the ogre labouring to knock it down. Zevran hurried a few paces up one of the sloping ramps leading to the platforms the archers had been guarding the wall from, ducked back down quickly as an arrow narrowly missed him. "Mainly hurlocks," he calmly reported "I think there's at least one caster with them."

Right nodded. "Mage is all yours, Stench," he told the mabari. Stench growled and wagged his tail furiously.

The gate went down, shattered by the ogre. Stench dashed forward and past it even before the wood had settled to the ground, Right and his companions closing in on the brute. They toke it down with ruthless efficiency before the nearby hurlocks could even reach the opening. As it fell, Right could see Stench tearing out the throat of one hurlock, and felt the burning frisson that meant another of the generals was near. He spotted it easily enough, another armour-clad hurlock in the middle of the group, its attention currently distracted as it prepared to cast a spell at Stench.

The fight was intense, Loghain and Oghren hewing away at the general while Right and Zevran dealt with wave after wave of attacking hurlocks, getting in blows on the general when they could. It got off several spells, but thankfully its worst one – a spell of paralysis – froze not only Right and his companions, but all the nearby hurlocks as well. Before a second wave of them arrived, the paralysis faded early from Right and Oghren thanks to their natural resistance to magic, and they managed to defend their helpless companions for long enough that they, too, were freed again. The general's own spell defeated it; it was still helplessly paralysed as Oghren hewed its head from its shoulders.

There were still more waves of hurlocks running toward them along the nearby bridge, but without the guidance of the general, they were considerably less organized, and easily slain.

Right quickly led his group on a check of the rest of the alienage to make sure that none of the creatures had slipped past them, then started across the bridge. They were most of the way across when they hear a roar, turned to see the archdemon come swooping out of a sky turned black and red from clouds of smoke, the reflection of flames, and the setting sun. It roared, and spat blue-white fire at the span; the rock literally exploded from the hea, sharps of stone flying like shrapnel in all directions. When the dust cleared, Right could see that they had been cut off; their only way now is forward, further into the city.

It didn't bother him; they were heading that way anyway.

* * *

Right's lungs and legs were burning, between the smoke in the air and the lengthy uphill battle to the palace district. From the plaza outside the entrance to the palace courtyards they have a view out over the city. The view is appalling; most of the lower city is burning now, the flames raging unchecked through the mainly wooden structures of the place. Only here and there are there islands of safety; the stone estates of the nobles, larger public buildings such as the chantry. The alienage is peculiarly lucky – in shunning them and walling them off, the humans have given the elves one of the few spots in the lower city that the flames cannot easily reach. If the elves can control the few fires that were burning there when Right and his companions left, they may well come through the battle in better shape then many of their neighbours.

Right noticed that Zevran was peering intently toward the distant city gates. He looked that way himself, but it was too far for his eyes to make out anything. "What do you see?" he asked.

Zevran frowned, shrugged. "I am not sure. It is too far to see anything but moving dots... I think the gates are under attack."

Right nodded. "Let's hope Sten and the others are okay," he said.

Loghain sniffed. "As far as we have come now, I doubt we need to worry about any darkspawn that get past them reaching us before we can reach Fort Drakon," he observed.

"It's not the darkspawn I'm worried about," Right said.

"Ah. Yes," Loghain said, and shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the three companions they'd left behind. "I, too, hope they are all okay," he admitted.

Oghren snorted. "I bet Shale is having herself a fine time, stepping on the heads of _squishy creatures_ ," he said. "Come on, let's get a move on – whatever is happening back at the gate right now, there's nothing we can do about it."

Right nodded, and turned to lead the way through the archway in the thick guard wall, into the courtyards.

They emerged into the open again to hear a familiar screeching roar, and looked up to see the dragon circling overhead, a small form clinging to its back.

"Riordan!" Right exclaimed, his sense for other Grey Wardens easily identifying the man even from so far away.

He and Loghain stood motionless, staring up at their fellow Grey Warden, watching as he clawed his way up the dragon's back toward its head. The dragon screeched and hovered a moment, then dove toward a burning stub of tower. Riordan raised himself to his knees, then dove to the side, sinking his blade into the dragon's wing, holding on to the hilt as the dragon rolled and brushed its back against the tower; he'd have been scraped off or crushed if not for his sudden move.

But for all its strength, dragon wing membrane was comparatively thin; as the dragon flew higher yet, screaming its pain and rage, Riordan's weight drew his sword down through the wing, slashing a gaping tear in the dragon's wing. As it roared and flapped frantically toward the top of the nearby Fort Drakon tower, Riordan slipped free, a tiny dark mote falling downwards, tumbling, spinning, before disappearing out of sight beyond the nearby rooftops. They did not have to see the impact to know how his fall had ended; no one could possibly survive such a drop.

" _Maker_ ," Loghain breathed.

"Ancestor's guide him," Right said softly.

Faces grim, they moved forward into the courtyard. The parapets where soldiers had once strolled were now teeming with darkspawn; they had to dodge and run to evade the arrows being rained down upon them by genlock archers.

They started up the stairs to the higher terrace, even as an ogre reached the top and tore up a chunk of the cobblestone pavement, flinging it toward them. They dodged the missile, then swarmed over the brute, Oghren cutting its head nearly off before they turned on the genlocks. More genlocks and hurlocks swarmed toward them, some standing back and sending arrows their way, others drawing swords and advancing on them.

As they worked their way from one side of the terrace to the other, another force of darkspawn appeared at the top of the staircase leading up to the next level – another ogre, many archers, and a couple of casters. They'd begun to throw spells before the group became aware of them. Loghain gave a cry as magic crawled over his skin, then collapsed bonelessly to the ground, unconscious or dead, Right wasn't sure which.

Oghren bellowed and charged up the stairs, Stench at his heels, and the two had the first caster down and dead before Right and Zevran could even catch up with them. The group of them charged again, at the second caster, an emissary, having to dodge as the ogre at the top duplicated the actions of the earlier ogre and threw a chunk of masonry their way.

The second caster went down almost as quickly as the first, screaming its hatred for them even as Zevran's weapon pierced its heart. They swarmed the ogre, pulling it down, even as another wave of darkspawn tried to flank them, a mix of hurlocks and a handful of shrieks. They hacked and hewed, fighting back-to-back-to-back, while Stench darted around outside the cluster, snapping and snarling and doing what damage he could.

And then the last darkspawn fell, and they'd won a brief respite. They hurried back down the stairs, found Loghain already groaning and struggling to rise to his feet again; he'd only been knocked out, not killed.

While Oghren saw to poulticing and bandaging the warrior, Right and Zevran made a quick check of the darkspawn bodies, taking anything useful they found – a few poultices, some flasks of poison.

"Are you ready to move on?" Right asked Loghain.

Loghain grimaced, but nodded. "I can still fight, if that's what you mean," he said dryly.

Right nodded, and they moved on, heading for the third and final terrace.

The darkspawn there were more organized then any they'd yet ran into, lines of archers spread out across the paving, reinforced by several emissaries and a tall alpha hurlock, as well as a handful of warrior hurlocks and more shrieks. Killing them took time; spread out like that, they were harder to deal with, and the spread-out archers did considerable damage before they finally killed the last one. Again they had to stop and catch their breath for a while, all of them needing poultices and bandages.

"Eat and drink before we move on again," Right ordered. "Or we'll not have the energy to finish this thing."

Loghain nodded agreement, already working the stopple out from his waterskin. Zevran fished in his backpack, pulling out some trail bars of dried fruit, nuts, and roasted grains held together with crystallized honey. Right contributed some strips of jerky, and Oghren some trail bread and cheese. They ate quickly, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings, wary of further attack.

"On to the fort," Right finally said, rising to his feet.

* * *

The courtyard of the fortress was swarming with darkspawn, as well-organized as the ones they'd met at the final terrace of the palace grounds had been. Better, if anything. Hurlock archers stood on raised mounds of earth behind crude barricades to either side, forming a lethal gauntlet they'd have to deal with to reach the stairs to the fort's entrance. The stairs were swarming with warrior hurlocks, with mages on the landings above. Getting through them all was going to hurt.

Loghain and Right looked quickly around, evaluating their opposition.

"Oghren left, I'll take the right," Loghain snapped. "Right, with me please."

Right nodded, exchanged a single brief glance with Zevran as the party split in two, each half charging for a different set of archers. Even as they parted, another threat added itself to the equation, a young dragon swooping down to land with a thump in the middle of the courtyard, shrieking angrily and blowing flame as it whipped its head from side to side.

"Get the archers, elf," Oghren growled as he reversed directions and charged at the dragon.

Loghain and Right grimly stuck to their own task, working their way along the right side, cutting down the archers. Thankfully Zevran's side had fewer of them – three to their six – and he mowed them down single-handedly in a single dazzling continuous attack along their line, spinning and ducking, his blades flashing out to cut throats and plunge into hearts.

Stench had raced over to join Oghren at the dragon, darting in and out and trying to hamstring its legs as the dwarf battled on. Zevran barely glanced that way before racing towards the stairs; the warrior hurlocks had moved forward to join the attack, and that had left the closest emissary unprotected. The mages were always the greater danger; seeing an opening, he took it.

As they slaughtered the final two archers on their side, Right heard a strangled cry, and looked to the far side of the courtyard to see Zevran hanging in mid-air, arched painfully back, his entire body shuddering, as he convulsed in the grip of a spell cast by the emissary he'd been trying to attack. Right cursed – there were too many darkspawn between them for him to do anything to help the elf. Including, he abruptly realized, another caster, as he saw the familiar glow of magic begin to form around its raised hands.

He and Loghain charged it, Right stunning it then the two of them hacking it apart, even as a flood of additional hurlocks and shrieks thundered down the stairs towards them. As they turned to the attack, Right had a glimpse of Zevran, back on his own feet, fumbling for a health poultice – just as a shriek appeared behind him and clubbed him to the ground. He tasted blood, realized he'd bit almost through his lip in his fear for his friend.

Oghren gave a shout of triumph as he and Stench took out the dragon, which rapidly changed to a string of curses as a second landed just feet away from him. He and Stench were on it before it had even recovered from its clumsy landing.

Even more hurlocks poured down the stairs, rapidly encircling Loghain and Right. As they battled on, it looked for a moment as if Loghain and Right would be able to hold them off, then Loghain gave a cry of pain as one of the remaining mages landed a death magic spell on him, a deep red glow enveloping him, blood seeping from his mouth, his nose, his eyes and ears.

A hurlock landed a stunning blow on Right. He wavered for a moment, unable to even defend himself, much less go to Loghain's aid. Loghain dropped to his knees, blood gouting from his mouth, then slumped to the ground entirely. Oghren gave a resounding shout of fury, and most of the darkspawn nearby fell to the ground, stunned or dead. Right jumped over the bodies, already charging up the stairs toward the closest remaining mage. He heard Oghren cry out again, this time in pain, a cry chopped out in mid-shout, and knew the dwarf was also down.

It was down to him and the dog, and even more hurlocks were running out of the gate of the fort. He tiredly cut down the mage, then moved on toward the final one, the one that had been Zevran's target before the elf had been felled. Stench knocked it to the ground, Right's sword cut its throat, and he turned to face the remaining swarm of hurlocks, the dragon screeching its frustration as it tried to reach him and found its path blocked by the darkspawn.

Right's arms felt leaden as he fought on, hurlock after hurlock falling dead before him. He saw Stench barrel past the darkspawn and engage the dragon single-handed, sinking his teeth into a wing tip and growling as he backed up, yanking the dragon off-balance and spoiling its aim as it released another gout of flame. The dragon roared again in frustration, flapping its wings, and Stench went flying through the air, slamming into the stone plinth of a statue at the centre of the stairs and falling limply to the ground.

Right realized he was down to just two opponents now; the dragon, and a single remaining hurlock, one of the hardier alphas. He dodged and darted around, keeping it between him and the dragon as he wore it down. The dragon gave a triumphant shriek as the hurlock finally fell, trampling it underfoot in its haste to reach him.

He staggered and swayed now instead of ducking and dodging, but somehow kept the dragon off of him, batting away its swipes with forelegs and head, narrowly avoiding a sweep of the leading edge of its wing that might have stunned him otherwise. The dragon reared back and hissed, neck coiling like a snake, then shot its head forward, gushing flame again. He ducked, more of a fall then a controlled movement, and thrust upwards with his swords. The flame cut off as he slit the creature's throat, and it fell to the stones, ichor pumping from its nearly severed neck.

Blessed silence fell on the courtyard as Right knelt motionless, too tired to even think straight, to even move. He slumped to the stone.

* * *

A whine woke him, a whine and a slobbering tongue. Stench, licking frantically at his face. He groaned and sat up, unsure how long he'd been out. Not very long, he decided, looking around; the sun wasn't noticeably lower in the sky, and the pools of blood and ichor around the fallen darkspawn hadn't begun to thicken.

"I'm not dead, I'm not dead!" he heard Oghren gasping, followed by a string of curses as the dwarf rose to his feet.

Right shakily rose to his own feet as well, needing to lean against the balustrade as he went down the stairs toward where Loghain and Zevran still lay. He checked Loghain first – he was closest – and found him still alive, his breathing shallow and laboured, but not dead. Oghren grimly set to work with poultices and bandages while Right moved on to check on Zevran.

The stillness of the elf frightened him, until he reached his side and knelt down, and saw the slow movement of Zevran's chest, felt the pulse still beating strongly in his throat. At his touch the elf roused, groaning in pain.

"My head...!" he exclaimed, wincing, one hand reaching up to gingerly touch a blood-crusted swelling behind one ear, where the shriek had hit him.

"Thank the Ancestors," Right exclaimed, and hugged the elf tightly, feeling infinitely relieved as the elf laughed softly in response, and hugged him back.

It took a while for them to care for all their hurts and regain enough energy to move onwards again; the sun was slipping down behind the horizon as they finally climbed the stairs to the massive doors. Right glanced back once at the embattled city spread out below them before turning away and slipping through the opening, entering the darkened interior.


	70. Death of a Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interior of the fort was a carpet of bodies, soldiers and darkspawn mixed together; the soldiers had clearly tried to defend the door, but been overwhelmed by the numbers of darkspawn thrown against them, no doubt augmented by emissaries and ogres. They carefully picked their way across the floor, stepping over the sprawled bodies. The air reeked of blood, and other even less-attractive smells associated with sudden violent death. At least the bodies were fresh enough not to reek of carrion yet. They proceeded cautiously, deeper into the fort, seeing nothing but more bodies. Smoke billowed out of a side room – a chapel, Right saw, the floor littered with more bodies, several of them female.

The interior of the fort was a carpet of bodies, soldiers and darkspawn mixed together; the soldiers had clearly tried to defend the door, but been overwhelmed by the numbers of darkspawn thrown against them, no doubt augmented by emissaries and ogres. They carefully picked their way across the floor, stepping over the sprawled bodies. The air reeked of blood, and other even less-attractive smells associated with sudden violent death. At least the bodies were fresh enough not to reek of carrion yet. They proceeded cautiously, deeper into the fort, seeing nothing but more bodies. Smoke billowed out of a side room – a chapel, Right saw, the floor littered with more bodies, several of them female.

They pressed on, reaching a gigantic room lit by torches, and a row of clerestory windows far overhead, just beneath the vaulted roof a full three stories above. The last fading rays of the setting sun streamed through them, red and eerie from the smoke-laden outside air.

As they crossed the expanse of floor, crackling balls of green energy sudden sprang into being, spread throughout the room. They flared into eye-blinding brightness, then faded, each ball disgorging a shade. Weapons hissed from sheaths as Right and his companions drew their weapons, rapidly falling into an outward-facing cluster as the supernatural creatures slid across the floor toward them. As they closed in, a ball of energy came shooting toward them from the far end of the room; a mage of some kind, a genlock by its size, stalked forward out of the shadows near the doorway.

"Stench – yours," Right growled, as he watched the shades closing in. The dog's only response was a low growl as it sped down the floor toward the distant figure. The group was engaged in battle moments later, Loghain and Oghren shouting and yelling to attract the creatures' attention while Right and Zevran fought at their sides, dodging the warriors' swings to cut at the shades.

Loghain swore suddenly, as one of the nearby shades vanished, the genlock mage appearing in it's place. It cast a spell, then vanished again, re-appearing in place of a shade a few paces further away. Stench came barrelling back down the hall, growling his dislike of the evasive target; it seemed every time he closed with it, the genlock blinked somewhere else in the room. It wasn't until they'd finally killed all of the shades that it became possible to pin down and kill the mage; at least Stench's relentless pursuit of it had kept it from doing too much damage with spells. They stood a moment, Loghain and Oghren gasping for breath, before moving on, warily, keeping their weapons in hands this time.

The next section of corridor was empty of everything, even bodies. They passed through another door, reaching a T-junction that Right vaguely remember from his escape from the fort weeks before. He suddenly paused. "Trap, look out," he warned, and moved forward, crouching to cut the trip-wire.

Doors slammed open along the corridor, and undead streamed out of every room, converging on the intersection. Even as Right cursed and moved a few steps backward to rejoin his party, he caught the sizzling crackle of magic from either end of the cross-corridor. Not just one mage, but two. "Stench, go left, rest of us right," he ordered, then charged forward, Loghain at his side, the warrior effortlessly smashing a way through the undead, then all of them sprinting down the hall toward a hurlock emissary. He could hear Stench growling and barking as he charged down the other branch of the corridor.

Even as they cut down the emissary, he heard Stench give a startled yelp, then heard something else give an unexpectedly deep, reverberant roar. He glanced back, and saw Stench charging back up the hallway toward him and the group, a bigger, darker form chasing right on the dog's heels; a bereskarn.

While Oghren and Zevran worked on finishing off the undead – thankfully they were weak and easily re-slain – Loghain and Right took on the blight bear. Loghain slammed his shield into the creature's head, stunning it, then brought his sword down across the back of its massive neck, cursing as the thick spines buried in its coarse fur absorbed most of the force of the blow before sword could reach flesh. Stench growled and darted in from the side, sinking his massive jaws in its well-fleshed neck, but the thick rolls of fat and heavily furred skin rendered his bite as ineffective as Loghain's sword.

Right dropped to one knee then lunged, sinking his sword point-first into the front of the creature's chest, just above where its massive ribcage ended, then yanked it savagely to the side. The creature bellowed, rose on its hind legs, and back off a step before crashing to the ground, its form melting and changing to that of a stout genlock as it died. A shape changer mage of some kind; he'd never run into one like it before.

He yanked free his sword, and turned to find that Oghren and Zevran had finished off the undead. For a moment they were once again free of opponents.

Their fight had carried them into a room he recognized; the place where the fort's mabaris had been kennelled. He could see that the darkspawn had been even less kind to the hounds then they were to humans; their corpses were ripped practically limb from limb. Stench whined as they picked their way past them to the door down to the dungeon where Right and Alistair had been held.

The door was closed, and either locked or jammed; no sounds came from beyond it. Right shrugged, and turned away, leading the group back to the T-junction. They checked the side rooms the undead had came from – a pair of armouries, the commander's office – and found a few odds and ends worth taking with them, but nothing else.

They reached the door at the end of the hall, opened it, and came to an abrupt stop. The floor inside was thickly carpeted with bodies; darkspawn, dozens of them, every one dead without even a mark on them. Wide-eyed, they slowly walked into the room, staring at the inexplicable carnage. Two huge ogres sprawled among the genlocks and hurlocks; there they saw blood, pooled on the floor around the two, seeming to have oozed from their mouths, nostrils, eyes, ears...

Something moved at the far back corner of the room, a short form moving forward from a shadowed staircase into the dim light. Weapons flew into their hands as they crouched, prepared to charge...

"Enchantment?"

* * *

Sandal couldn't explain how he'd come to be there, so far from where they'd last seen him at Redcliffe, nor why he was surrounded by so many dead darkspawn. Or where his adoptive father Bohdran was, or – well, anything, really.

They took advantage of him being there to have the enchantments on their weapons adjusted, and dumped a lot of the gear they'd collected for him to look after until they returned – if they returned – hoping he'd be all right on his own, then headed up the staircase, higher into the central tower of the ancient fort. They seemed to tramp up the staircase for ages before finally reaching the room at the top; Right suspected they'd climbed the full height of that huge vaulted room they'd been in earlier.

Boxes and bags of supplies were stacked in the room; Right guessed there must be a hoist or winch somewhere near, he couldn't imagine that the soldiers made a habit of carrying anything more up those stairs then they absolutely had to. There were also a couple of bodies; some amount of darkspawn had clearly made it past the carnage in the lower chamber. They continued on, passing through an area that had been crudely converted to some sort of sitting-room-and-bedroom area; for officers, by how well-furnished it was – and then through a door into a large mess hall, the table still set with the last meal of the soldiers. Here they met their first resistance on this floor; two hurlocks and a genlock, all of the strong alpha type. The archdemon had definitely kept its best soldiers for the hardest jobs.

After killing them, they rapidly searched the mess hall and attached kitchen. Plenty of signs that there had been people here, but not a single body anywhere; Right wondered if they'd been turned into undead, like those they'd encountered below, or been dragged off and consumed by the darkspawn – the darkspawn certainly hadn't touched any of the human food sitting around on counters and tables. He and his group took advantage of the opportunity, tearing hunks of fresh bread off of some of the loaves in the kitchen, smearing it with butter from a nearby crock – the long day of walking and near-continuous fighting was taking energy out of them faster then they could recover it, especially when they had so few opportunities for even brief rests. They refilled their depleted waterskins from a tap, then moved on.

The next area after the mess hall was, predictably, bunk rooms for the enlisted soldiers. Whatever the space had been intended for by the original builders of the fortress centuries ago, it had now been crudely divided with strategically placed furniture – shelves, bunk beds, chests – to form a series of smaller rooms. Beyond that was an armoury, filled with racks upon racks of weapons and armour, much of it undisturbed, as if whatever soldiers had been here had not even had time to go for their gear when the darkspawn attacked.

After that they started to meet darkspawn in numbers, often frighteningly well organized compared to what they'd become used to expecting over the past year of fighting them. Line of archers waiting in ambush here, groups of genlocks hiding in the shadows of a well-trapped hallway there... the amount of real thought behind their distribution was deeply disturbing. Darkspawn weren't supposed to _think_ , to _plan_ , with anything like this degree of complexity. Right wondered if it was the presence of the archdemon so close at hand that made the difference; even here, with so much further to go before they reached the tower top, he could feel it, a burning in his blood, a raw scraping against his nerves, a pressure in his head. He could _feel_ its hatred of all things living, its desire to destroy.

They continued on, past ogres and emissaries, and finally reach a last staircase, a final pair of doors.

"The roof is beyond that," Loghain said dryly, as they walked toward them. "And the archdemon. Are we all ready?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," Right said. He stopped a couple steps shy of the door, drew a flash from his belt and dripped poison along his blade, concentrating on the task as if it was the only important thing in the world, breathing slowly and evenly, snatching a last few seconds of rest before the final fight. Handed off the flask to Zevran, who solemnly did the same.

Loghain was standing nearly motionless, just his hands moving, fingers curling and uncurling, staring in the direction of the doors with his eyes focused somewhere well beyond them. Oghren was going through a series of loosening-up motions, swinging his arms around, twisting his head from side to side, then produced a flask from somewhere – he always seemed to have a flask somewhere – and pulled the stopple, taking a deep drink, then reached out and knocked the flask against Loghain's breastplate. Loghain looked down, surprised, then nodded and accepted it, took a deep swallow, passed it on. They all drank, the flask going around and around until it was empty, the thick sweet liqueur inside bringing a temporary rush of desperately-needed energy.

"Well," said Loghain tiredly. "Let's get this done."

Right nodded, and opened the doors.

* * *

His memories of the fight after that were more a series of vignettes then a coherent whole. They emerged on the roof in time to see the archdemon killing the last of a group of soldiers that had somehow made it to the roof. Perhaps this explained the lack of bodies on the upper floor – the soldiers had been _here_ , fighting the archdemon.

Charging the archdemon, Loghain bellowing a challenge, his black locks blown back by the wind of its flapping wings, eyes wide and maddened. Oghren roared a challenge in return to its bellow, every muscles and vein standing forth in sharp relief as he went into a berserker rage.

Right spotted the ballistae mounted here and there, meant to be a protection again ground-based attacks – from the top of the tower it was possible to fire on almost any position within the upper city – and sent Zevran scurrying to turn one on the archdemon, knowing the engine would do much greater damage versus the creature then their puny weapons could, if Zevran could manage to target and hit it.

The archdemon evaded them again and again; its torn wing prevented it from simply flying away, but at intervals it leapt into the air, moving well out of range of their weapons, spitting crackling floods of dark energy at them – not fire, not like the high dragon they'd killed before, but some dark tainted magic instead. As it roared and shrieked, lashed out at them, escaped from their reach again and again, hordes of darkspawn came to its defence. They flooded up every stairway, emerged from drains, some seeming to have scaled the very stones of the tower itself so unexpectedly did they appear. At times the group had to abandon the fight on the archdemon to deal with the hordes of darkspawn, or risk being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them.

Zevran was kept busy running from ballista to ballista, laboriously turning the heavy engines to target the archdemon, sometimes only able to get in two or three shots before it changed positions again.

And then Oghren was clambering up its lengthy neck, laughing and cursing as he reached its head, clinging to the long scale-spines as it thrashed madly, trying to dislodge him. It tossed him free, into the air, made as if to catch him in its gaping mouth as he fell, but he switched ends in mid-air, giving a triumphant screech as he plunged down, his sword sinking deep into its neck, half-severing the spine.

It tumbled to the ground, body spasming, the dwarf rolling free to the side, still laughing.

They closed in on it, warily. It was still alive, trapped in a body that no longer responded to its commands. Its hatred for them all was like a raging fire, a burning force he could _feel_ , like sunlight on already-sunburnt skin.

Oghren and Zevran dropped back as Loghain and Right continued a few steps further forward, Oghren finally falling silent as the tension of the two Grey Wardens became evident.

"This is my job," Loghain said softly. "I have done... so much wrong. Allow me to do one last thing right." He glanced down at Right, a faint smiled quirked one corner of his lips for just the briefest of moments. "Besides, I doubt your elven friend would allow me to live much beyond you, if I allowed you to take the final blow."

Right inhaled deeply, nodded. Was surprised by the lump in his throat at the knowledge that this man he'd known so briefly, had disliked for so long, then unexpectedly come to... respect, even like, in their few weeks of travel – was about to die.

"I salute you, Loghain, for what it's worth," he said, voice hoarse, suiting actions to words.

Loghain nodded, then turned and faced the archdemon, looking at it, then _beyond_ it, to something only he could see. "Rowan," he whispered. " _Maric_."

Then he began to run, long legs eating up the distance between him and the dragon. His arm swept out, scooped up a sword in passing – a great two-handed sword, not his usual one-hander. The dragon struggled to lift its head, roaring its fury as the man flew toward it.

" _Cailan_!" he screamed, voice raw with the force of his shout, dropping low, sliding on his knees across the pavement, sword upraised, slashing open the beast's throat from jaw nearly to breastbone. Its head reared back, a gruesome bubbling sound emerging from the slashed ruin of its throat, then fell heavily to the stone. Loghain pushed himself slowly to his feet, raised the sword in both hands, and plunged it into its skull.

Light. Light that roared like thunder, a beam of it exploding upwards, a silver spear that lit up the clouds and the embattled city below like daylight, casting harsh shadows. At its core, a dark form, body arched backwards, light streaming over it, streaming _from_ it, emerging from every seam of armour, from every pore of skin. Light, exploding outwards in a shockwave, as Grey Warden and archdemon merged and died.

Then silence, and darkness.


	71. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right opened his eyes to find two concerned faces looking down at him – Zevran, and Oghren. Zevran's head was upside-down – his head was resting on the elf's lap, he realized. A look of relief crossed Zevran's face. "You shouldn't scare me like that, _mi corazón_ ," he said severely.

Right opened his eyes to find two concerned faces looking down at him – Zevran, and Oghren. Zevran's head was upside-down – his head was resting on the elf's lap, he realized. A look of relief crossed Zevran's face. "You shouldn't scare me like that, _mi corazón_ ," he said severely.

Right smiled, then suddenly frowned and sat upright, looking around. "Loghain..."

"Dead," Oghren told him flatly.

He'd known what the answer had to be, but that hadn't stopped him from hoping... he sighed, winced. "By the Stone, but I'm tired," he groaned.

Oghren snorted. "Me, too. I feel like I could fall over and sleep for two, three days, no problem. _Without_ being drunk out of my skull first."

"Well, we won't get any closer to a good bed sitting here," Zevran pointed out, then turned his head to look toward the city below. "Though I doubt there are many good beds to be found right now."

Right nodded, and managed to climb to his feet, needing only a little help from the elf. He walked over to where Loghain lay, fallen to the ground beside the archdemon's head. He'd fallen over on his side as he dropped, was just slightly curled up, head pillowed on one outstretched arm as if sleeping. He almost looked... peaceful.

Right crouched down, touched his cheek. Already cooling. "Ancestor's guide you," he whispered.

Oghren grunted. "The Stone will protect him," he said solemnly.

Zevran said nothing at first, just stood there looking down at the body, then gave a single short nod. "He died as well as any man could hope."

They turned away, started over to the stairs by which they'd come up. They were almost there when the doors boomed open, disgorging a rush of soldiers – mainly humans, dressed in the colours of assorted lords, but with some shorter forms mixed in, elves and dwarfs, and even a few robed mages. Right was pleased to recognize Kardol among their number, not in the least surprised to find the Legion of the Dead in the forefront those who had fought the furthest into the city against the darkspawn.

It ended up being quite a while before Right and his companions made it to a bed; there was so much to tell first, much of it having to be repeated as various important personages made it to the tower top. When they did finally bed down, it was in one of the upper rooms of the fort, Zevran and Right on the top tier of a bunkbed, Oghren in the bottom, a heavily bandaged Stench at his feet. The dog had come nastily close to being disemboweled by the archdemon; as it was, he'd likely have a fearsome scar left when the slash across his belly fully healed. At least it hadn't been too hard to find a healer mage willing to spend some energy on the dog to make sure he'd pull through – this _was_ Ferelden, after all, and a hound that had fought the archdemon was considered fully as important and heroic as the people who'd done so.

The bed was narrow, privacy non-existent at the moment, but for now, just being alive and beside Zevran was enough. Tomorrow would be soon enough to begin dealing with the aftermath, and thinking about their future.

* * *

 **Closing it here, at least for now... Right-in-my-head tells me he wants me to follow him and Zevran into Awakening as well, and I'm at least considering the idea. But after a month+ of playing the dwarf, I need a break from him for at least a little while. Plus I have an idea for another side story to Right Choices that I may explore before picking up again with Right post-Blight.**

 **I also want to give more thought to just what I'd want to do within a DAA context, since one thing I'd definitely want is to take a lot more liberties with the plot (since, among other things, Zevran would have to be shoehorned in – Zevran-in-my-head threatens dire bodily harm if I try to pry the two of them apart). It's at least potentially possible that I'll abandon DAA-related plot entirely and just write my own fic about the future of the duo.**

 **I hope you've enjoyed reading this, I certainly enjoyed writing it!**


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